3   182;?  01391    8644 


N 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


3   1822  01391   8644 


+ 

1103 


- 


THE 
YELLOW    VAN 


THE 
YELLOW   VAN 


BY 


RICHARD    WHITEING 

Author  of  "No.  5  John  Street" 
and  "The  Island" 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK  :  1903 


Copyright,  1902,  1903,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Published,  October,  1903 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


THE  YELLOW  VAN 


THE  YELLOW  VAN 


there  ever  such  a  match!  A 
great  English  nobleman,  the  Duke 
of  Allonby,  and  a  mere  American 
' '  school-marm ' '  from  a  rising  com- 
munity out  West  where  they  got 
the  fashions  a  month  late.  She 
was  beautiful,  if  you  like,  with 
a  mingled  pride  and  tenderness  in  her  face  worthy 
of  the  Madonna  with  the  bambino;  tall  and  with  a 
presence,  too;  educated,  and  withal  of  a  true  no- 
bility of  soul,  and  even  of  manners,  that  left  nothing 
to  be  desired.  But  a  school-marm  going  to  England 
to  be  a  duchess !  Yet  there  it  was. 

It  had  come  about  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the 
world.  He  was  looking  about  incognito  for  a  ranch 
on  the  Pacific  slope;  her  uncle,  a  man  of  substance, 
was  the  local  real-estate  agent,  and  so  they  met.  The 
alias  of  his  mere  family  name,  as  distinct  from  the 
title,  kept  him  secure  against  impertinent  curiosity, 
and  he  was  little  more  to  them  than  a  Mr.  Nobody; 
but  he  had  an  air  of  distinction,  and  he  paid  his 


The  Yellow  Van 

way,  and  that  was  enough.  He  stayed  at  her 
uncle's  house  as  what  he  called  a  "lodger"  and 
they  a  boarder.  The  two  young  people  were  thrown 
together  in  romantic  associations,  and  in  that  sole 
circumstance  you  are  well  on  your  way  to  the 
core  of  the  mystery.  For  the  rising  township  was 
still  backed  by  the  deep  forest,  of  which  it  was  but 
recently  a  clearing.  And  here  in  the  heart  of  it 
was  a  being  with  the  virtues  of  the  woods  and  the 
toilets  of  civilization. 

Her  charm  was  subtly  compounded.  She  was 
cultivated  and  yet  a  wayside  flower,  a  happy  union 
of  opposites.  She  had  taken  a  good  degree  at  her 
university,  and  was  of  much  miscellaneous  reading; 
yet  she  lived  and  thought  as  simply  as  Lodge's 
Rosalynde  in  the  wild.  She  could  talk  the  duke 
down  on  any  subject,  because  her  intent  seemed 
only  to  be  to  talk  herself  up  to  the  highest  reaches. 
There  was  something  fascinating  in  the  way  in 
which  she  leaned  in  the  porch,  at  eventide,  and 
looked  wistfully  toward  a  wide,  wide  world  which 
she  had  almost  made  up  her  mind  she  was  never 
to  see  save  through  the  medium  of  the  monthly 
magazines.  She  had  charmed  him  not  more  by  her 
beauty  and  grace  than  by  her  character. 

Hers  was  that  high-bred  assurance  of  self  of 
those  who  have  never  known  the  shock  of  a  cross 
word,  and  who  are  as  free  from  a  sense  of  bonds 
as  any  creature  of  philosophic  anarchy.  This  na- 
turally made  short  work  of  one  whose  whole  life 
had  been  a  surfeit  of  deference.  She  was  his  in- 


The  Yellow  Van 

tellectual  superior,  and  she  met  him  on  that  foot- 
ing of  social  equality  on  which,  by  the  somewhat 
feeble  tenure  of  a  pious  opinion,  he  held  the  hope 
of  one  day  meeting  his  fellow-creatures  in  heaven. 
He  had  made  her  acquaintance  at  a  time  when  his 
head  was  still  smarting  from  the  impact  of  two 
able-bodied  young  women  of  family,  thrown  at  it 
in  a  single  season  by  as  many  unnatural  mamas, 
to  say  nothing  of  an  orphaned  third  who  had 
achieved  the  same  operation  by  a  sort  of  double 
somersault,  of  great  initial  velocity,  on  her  own 
account.  He  was  eager  to  be  loved  for  himself 
alone.  And,  even  beyond  that,  he  wanted  some- 
thing not  himself;  and  here  it  was  in  this  most  ex- 
quisite being  who  was  all  faith,  hope,  energy,  en- 
thusiasm, and  who  seemed  only  to  live  to  shape  her- 
self and  others  to  the  finest  ends. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  well  to  look  at,  in  a 
quiet,  non-obtrusive,  manly  way,  and  his  manners 
were  almost  as  good  as  her  own,  though  just  a 
trifle  tainted  by  the  arrogance  of  his  birth-mark 
and  of  his  training  at  Eton.  He  was  one  of  those 
rare  creatures  the  gentlemen  of  nature,  which  is 
as  much  as  to  say  one  who  has  the  Christian,  or 
for  that  matter  the  pagan,  virtues  in  a  social  setting, 
and  especially  the  unwillingness  to  give  or  to  take 
offense.  Above  all,  in  spite  of  the  magnificence 
which  was  as  yet  his  own  secret,  he  sought  the  har- 
vest of  the  quiet  eye,  the  quiet  mind,  and  had  a 
lively  horror  of  pribble-prabble  and  all  pretense. 

There  are  noblemen  of  that  stamp,  good  fellows 


The  Yellow  Van 

who  never  feel  so  uneasy  as  when  they  are  in  their 
robes,  and  whose  evening  pipe  after  the  most  im- 
posing function  is  a  sort  of  burnt-offering  of  re- 
pentance for  much  foolishness  suffered  and  some 
done— noblemen  who  go  through  life  longing,  and 
too  often  in  vain,  to  find  a  fellow-Christian  who 
will  call  them  by  a  Christian  name,  and  who  have 
come  into  miraculous  possession  of  the  great  truth 
that  Charlemagne  slept  but  little  better  for  his 
hundred  and  twenty  watchmen  with  flaming 
torches  and  naked  swords.  They  are  tired  of  their 
state.  Oh,  how  tired  they  are!  One  such,  as  we 
know,  actually  fled  from  it  in  perpetuity,  to  serve 
in  a  merchantman,— by  preference,  we  believe,  in 
the  stoke-hole,  for  the  benefit  of  the  greater  privacy, 
— and  had  the  extreme  good  luck  to  die  in  mid- 
ocean,  where  they  had  to  bury  him  in  the  absolute 
seclusion  of  fifty  times  fathom  five. 

It  is  evident  that  in  such  a  situation  the  duke  was 
at  the  mercy  of  the  following  accidents:  a  summer 
evening  on  a  veranda,  where  the  inwardness  of 
things  was  a  sort  of  message  printed  in  glowing 
colors  over  all  the  sky,  a  more  subtle  blend  of  light 
and  shadow  in  a  fine  face,  an  eye  drooping  liquid 
glories  like  the  orb  itself,  a  pretty  evening  gown 
of  white,  just  speckled  with  floral  ornament,  a 
shapely  foot  peeping  therefrom,  folded  hands,  and 
a  sigh.  And,  one  day,  they  all  came  together,  the 
sigh  with  the  rest.  It  was  a  sigh  at  the  right  time, 
no  doubt,  but  it  was  not  an  effect  of  art.  A  sort  of 
acquired  distaste  for  flirtation  had  kept  her  in  ig- 

6 


The  Yellow  Van 

norance  of  that  terrible  law  of  the  Amazons  that  no 
girl  should  marry  until  she  had  killed  a  man.  She 
simply  pitied  herself,  for  the  moment,  under  a  sense 
of  the  limitations  of  her  lot. 

Then  he  sighed  on  his  own  account ;  and,  with  that 
same  self-consciousness,  not  unpleasing,  on  her  part, 
and  embarrassment  as  well. 

In  states  of  this  description,  when  they  are  of  hope- 
ful tendency,  the  mood  of  one  soon  becomes  the 
mood  of  both.  There  is  not  a  more  infectious  com- 
plaint. It  was  so  in  this  instance.  He  caught  the 
embarrassment  as  quickly  as  he  had  caught  the 
sigh. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while. 

"It  is  so  wretched  to  have  to  say  good-by,"  he 
said  at  length.  "Yet  I  must  soon  go;  I  have  had 
letters  from  home." 

"At  least  you  are  going  back  to  the  world." 

"Hardly:  the  world  is  here." 

"As  a  pious  opinion  in  transcendentalism,"  she 
laughed.  "I  heartily  agree— but — " 

"What  more  would  even  you  have?" 

"Well,  perhaps  one  might  wish  to  import  the  isles 
of  Greece  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  since  they  are  to  be 
had  in  no  other  way. ' ' 

"Believe  me,  you  have  their  best  as  it  is— their 
beauty  of  life  particularly." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes— just  in  a  woman  going  and  coming— look- 
ing after  her  Hoys  and  girls  in  the  school-house,  and 
setting  them  endless  examples  of  manliness  and 


The  Yellow  Van 

womanliness— ministering  to  her  quaint  old  uncle 
and  the  little  household  when  she  comes  home." 

It  was  not  easy  to  mistake  his  meaning  now,  and 
she  grew  troubled,  mainly  with  the  wish  to  hide  the 
signs  of  it. 

"There  may  still  be  something  wanting,"  she 
said,  with  a  rather  piteous  smile. 

"What,  I  wonder?" 

' '  The  larger  life.  You  should  know,  for  you  have 
told  me  of  it— men  and  cities,  Provence  and  Avignon, 
Florence,  the  world!  the  world!" 

"Not  one  thing  assuredly,  and  that  the  chief." 

There  was  silence  once  more,  but  it  was  as  the 
silence  in  heaven  for  both. 

She  turned  toward  the  house. 

He  detained  her;  and,  in  the  desperation  of  the 
moment,  he  said  his  word,  timidly  at  first,  but  with 
all  the  needful  fire  and  energy  as  he  drew  courage 
from  her  rising  color  and  even  from  her  downcast 
eyes.  And,  since  it  was  to  be  so,  he  presently  heard 
the  one  precious  word  he  wanted  in  return,  but  no 
more. 

Yet  she  felt  that  her  duty  was  not  entirely  to 
herself.  So  it  was  still  a  conditional  promise,  with 
more  than  one  clause — the  full  consent  of  the  se- 
nior who  had  for  many  years  been  father  and 
mother  to  the  orphaned  girl;  the  suitor's  own  fixity 
of  resolve,  to  be  tested  by  his  temporary  return 
to  his  own  country,  with  all  the  risks  it  might  bring 
forth;  and  withal  some  natural  terror  of  the  great 
venture  of  marriage  in  a  strange  land.  This,  in- 

8 


The  Yellow  Van 

deed,  still  left  her  brother,  a  young  man  just  leav- 
ing college,  out  of  the  reckoning;  but  she  knew 
that  any  wish  of  hers  would  be  his  law. 

The  duke  was  obliged  to  be  content  with  this.  He 
had  more  speedy  success  than  he  expected  with  the 
old  man.  As  a  dealer  in  real  estate  Mr.  James 
Gooding  was  particularly  accessible  to  the  tempta- 
tion of  satisfactory  reference.  The  duke,  as  "Mr. 
Harfoot,"  was  easily  able  to  put  him  in  communi- 
cation with  bankers  and  others,  who,  without  re- 
vealing more  than  was  necessary,  fully  confirmed 
their  client's  assertion  of  independent  means,  and 
gave  the  inquirer  complete  satisfaction  on  every  ma- 
terial point. 

Then  he  went  away  to  his  own  side  of  the  world, 
to  write  to  her  every  day,  to  chuckle  over  her  letters 
in  reply,  with  her  sweet  little  motherly  cautions  to 
him  against  overboldness  in  the  attempt  to  make 
their  common  fortune — letters  with  promises  to 
wait  till  he  was  quite  ready,  and  assurances  that 
they  were  already  married  in  her  heart.  Yet,  be- 
ing characteristically  American,  she  still  talked  of 
fortune  as  one  of  his  goals  in  life.  It  was  not  that 
she  coveted  the  riches,  but  only  that  she  feared  to 
depress  him  by  seeming  to  question  his  power  to 
acquire  them.  To  have  doubted  a  man's  prowess 
for  such  an  achievement  in  this  age  would  have 
been  like  doubting  his  power  to  make  short  work 
of  a  giant  in  the  days  of  chivalry. 

And  when  the  correspondence  had  yielded  its 
full  delight,  he  crossed  the  ocean  again,  to  reveal 


The  Yellow  Van 

himself  as  one  of  the  greatest  nobles  in  the  world, 
to  lay  at  her  feet  a  fortune  that  matched  his  title, 
to  beat  down  every  objection  in  his  new-found  joy 
in  feeling  that  he  was  loved  for  himself  alone,  and 
finally  to  marry  and  bring  her  back  to  his  ancestral 
home. 

Do  not  be  too  hard  on  him  or  on  his  chronicler. 
Such  things  may  happen,  do  happen,  or  they  would 
never  form  the  staple  of  fairy-tale,  which  perhaps, 
in  its  essence,  is  but  the  realized  highest  possible 
of  our  human  lot. 


10 


II 


H,  what  a  night  of  vigil  it  was  for 
her  when  her  lover  had  told  her 
his  news  and  suffered  her  to  es- 
cape from  his  embrace!  Her  little 
bedchamber  seemed  all  alight  in  the 
darkness,  and  every  single  object 
in  it  to  be  burning  itself  into  her  consciousness 
in  outlines  of  fire.  All  the  livelong  night  the  brain 
throbbed,  taking  its  time  from  the  heart.  The 
shock  of  surprise  was  too  great,  almost  too  cruel — 
to-day  a  little  nobody,  to-morrow  to  stand  before 
kings!  The  mere  rank,  in  and  for  itself,  was  the 
smallest  allurement  of  the  prospect;  the  greatest 
was  the  realization  of  more  generous  ideals.  She 
who  had  scarcely  moved  beyond  her  own  modest 
circumscription  in  all  her  life,  save  for  a  State 
fair  in  the  local  capital  or  a  flying  visit  to  New 
York,  was  now  to  see  the  via  sacra  of  European 
travel,  with  a  monument  or  a  memento  at  every 
step.  And  she  was  to  see  it  in  total  freedom  from 
the  sordid  considerations  of  ways  and  means. 

Ever,  when  the  girl  had  tried  to  visit  these  ro- 
mantic scenes  in  fancy,  with  the  help  of  her  little 
picture-gallery  of  foreign  post-cards  and  her  "Pic- 
turesque Europe,"  she  had  been  all  too  surely  held 
back  by  the  fear  that  their  boarding-house  rates 

1 1 


The  Yellow  Van 

might  not  fit  in  with  her  scheme  of  enchantment. 
What  a  thing  for  her  to  be  able  to  put  away  for- 
ever such  humiliating  cares,  and  to  be  free  for  the 
true  business  of  living— nature,  art,  and  poesy,  and 
the  commerce  of  great  souls!  For  she  was  unso- 
phisticated enough  to  think  that  the  first  families 
of  the  British  peerage  necessarily  kept  the  best 
spiritual  society  of  their  time. 

Add  to  this  her  greater  joy  in  the  contemplation 
of  those  families  as  shapers  of  human  lots.  Her 
heart  beat  faster  than  ever  at  the  thought  of  the 
good  she  would  do  as  the  chieftainess  of  an  historic 
house,  and  of  the  obliging  nature  of  the  lesser 
people  about  her  who  would  kindly  suffer  it  to  be 
done.  It  was  rather  hard  to  play  that  bountiful 
part  in  America,  with  a  whole  democracy  wanting 
nothing  of  its  neighbor  but  his  power  to  want  no- 
thing of  anybody  else.  A  great  English  commu- 
nity, with  its  culture  and  refinement  in  the  upper 
ranks,  its  ordered  degrees  of  dependence  in  the 
lower,  and  its  supposed  equality  of  happiness  in 
all,  would  satisfy  the  deepest  need  of  her  woman's 
nature  in  giving  her  a  comforting  and  protecting 
part. 

Her  blood  coursed  through  her  veins,  in  the  very 
ecstasy  of  being,  at  the  prospect.  But,  a  moment 
after,  it  became  sluggish  in  the  cold  fit  of  the  dread 
of  her  unfitness  for  the  position,  and  of  the  tor- 
tures she  might  have  to  bear  in  the  persecution  of 
grand  dames  resenting  her  intrusion  into  their  set. 
She  saw  herself  made  to  look  a  fool  in  her  own 

12 


The  Yellow  Van 

drawing-room  by  vindictive  rivals  who  had  once 
hoped  to  sit  in  her  seat,  all  forlorn  with  her  want 
of  pedigree,  her  country  manners,  and,  where  these 
failed  to  barb  the  dart,  with  the  "twang"  which  was 
hers  inalienably,  for  better  or  for  worse,  as  much 
as  her  beautiful  complexion.  These  white  nights  on 
the  eve  of  new  ventures  in  being — who  that  has  ever 
aspired  has  not  known  them?  And  since  we  live 
rather  by  the  count  of  sensations  than  by  the  count 
of  time,  to  have  watched  through  one  of  them  is  to 
have  lengthened  the  allotted  span  by  a  count  of 
years. 

She  spoke  her  fears  to  him  next  morning:  only 
to  be  told,  of  course,  that  her  voice  was  music ;  that, 
for  her  pedigree,  she  would  be  his  wife;  and  that, 
for  the  trick  of  manners  and  customs  as  distinct 
from  the  root  of  the  matter  which  she  had  in  her 
own  fine  nature,  she  would  be  placed  under  the  sure 
guidance  of  a  dowager  of  his  own  choice.  With 
all  this  to  comfort  and  to  strengthen  her,  being 
human,  she  was  still  a  little  wild  in  her  course.  She 
borrowed  "Lives  of  Eminent  Women"  from  the 
nearest  public  library,  and  was  mentally  marked  as  a 
backslider  by  the  gray-headed  librarian  by  reason  of 
her  inquiries  for  recent  British  fiction  dealing  with 
the  manners  of  the  great.  Her  repentance,  however, 
was  both  rapid  and  effectual.  Before  a  week  had 
passed  she  had  returned  to  her  allegiance  to  classic 
authors,  and  had  registered  a  vow  from  which  she 
never  afterward  departed  to  take  herself,  as  finally 
she  gave  him  leave  to  take  her,  for  better  or  for  worse. 

'3 


The  Yellow  Van 

But  what  a  stir  in  the  papers  when  it  was  known ! 
That  day  was  her  last  of  perfect  privacy  on  this 
earth.  Its  morrow  saw  her  in  the  forefront  of  the 
publicity  of  two  continents— of  one  continent  es- 
pecially. Uncle  Gooding,  with  the  duke's  leave, 
whispered  it  to  the  editor  of  the  local  paper.  The 
editor,  who  was  in  touch  with  a  great  news  agency, 
blazed  it  forth  to  the  AVestern  Hemisphere.  The 
Western  passed  it  on  to  the  Eastern  that  same  night, 
through  three  thousand  miles  of  sea.  Weary  for- 
eign editors  looked  up  his  Grace's  pedigree  in  the 
"Peerage,"  and  his  speeches  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
as  materials  for  a  sketch  of  his  career.  Smart  writ- 
ers of  leaderettes  compared  him  to  King  Cophetua, 
and  wrote  homilies  on  the  American  invasion. 
And  next  morning  it  was  on  its  way  to  every 
capital,  to  every  club,  to  every  hamlet  and  house- 
hold of  the  planet,  south  of  that  ultimate  settlement 
of  civilized  man  at  Hammerfest,  beyond  which  lie 
sheer  barbarism  and  the  arctic  night.  Such  is  the 
circulation  of  a  paragraph  when  it  is  a  paragraph 
of  the  right  sort. 

The  evening  of  the  second  day  brought  down 
swarms  of  reporters,  and  the  poor  girl  had  to  sub- 
mit to  the  process  known  technically  as  "writing 
up."  In  a  few  hours  more  she  was  able  to  read  her 
own  history  from  birth  with  the  interest  of  one 
who  has  met  a  stranger  for  the  first  time.  She  was, 
so  to  speak,  introduced  to  herself.  It  was  not  that 
the  particulars  were  inaccurate:  she  had  wisely 
guarded  against  that  by  a  meek  submission  to  the 

14 


The  Yellow  Van 

inevitable  of  public  interrogatory,  and  her  friends 
of  course  had  given  of  their  best.  It  was  only  that 
she  had  never  realized  herself  before,  or  learned 
how  the  small  beer  of  personal  chronicle  may  still, 
by  judicious  treatment,  become  the  strong  brew  of 
biographical  record.  The  recorders  threw  her  mod- 
est little  career  into  perspective,  and  made  it  all 
seem  to  belong  to  one  great  composition.  It  is  at 
least  quite  as  startling  to  find  that  you  have  all 
your  life  been  making  biography  as  that  you  have 
all  your  life  been  talking  prose.  With  the  old  pri- 
vacy of  her  lot  went,  inevitably,  some  of  the  old 
simplicity.  She  was  never  to  be  wholly  unaware  of 
herself  again.  Now  she  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that 
when  she  rebuked  the  big  boy  for  rudeness  in  class 
she  had  a  queenly  glance.  And  her  weekly  ramble 
with  the  children  in  the  summer  woods  was  a  joint 
effect  of  a  love  of  nature,  proficiency  in  botanic 
science,  and  goodness  of  heart.  Her  affection  for 
her  uncle  was,  in  the  same  way,  filial  piety  thwarted 
by  circumstance,  yet  still  determined  not  to  be 
balked  of  an  object.  She  blushed  for  herself  in 
distracting  alternations  of  the  one  belief  that  she 
was  a  bit  of  an  angel,  and  of  the  other  that  she 
was  only  a  bit  of  a  prig.  Terrible  moment  of  the 
full  consciousness  of  intelligent  public  curiosity 
when  the  old  partnership  of  the  soul  is  enlarged, 
and  it  is  no  longer  yourself  and  your  Maker,  but 
also  an  "&  Co."  of  the  man  over,  the  way! 
"Blessed  indeed  are  those  ears  which  listen  not 
after  the  voice  which  is  sounding  without."  Never 

'5 


The  Yellow  Van 

again!  But  A  Kempis  never  underwent  the  ordeal 
of  a  Sunday  edition. 

For  the  ceremony  itself,  however,  they  dodged 
the  common  informer  with  great  success.  'It  was 
given  out  that  the  local  church  might  be  the 
scene  of  it,  and  lo !  they  fled  by  night  to  an  edifice 
a  hundred  miles  away,  with  none  but  their  wit- 
nesses and  Augusta  Gooding's  pastor  to  bear  them 
company,  and  were  united  only  less  quietly  than 
the  primal  pair.  It  was  the  most  successful  evasion 
on  record.  Several  reporters  were  discharged. 

Their  honeymoon  was  slightly  ridiculous  and 
wholly  delightful.  They  made  straight  for  the 
Mediterranean,  and  saw  the  sights  like  a  pair  of 
happy  children  on  a  holiday.  The  duke,  who  had 
at  first  scoffed  at  the  absurdity  of  such  a  pilgrim- 
age, finally  made  it  the  object  of  an  almost  reverent 
interest.  He  had  run  through  these  scenes  a  dozen 
times,  but  never  to  give  them  the  slightest  atten- 
tion as  matters  of  intellectual  concern.  He  thought 
he  had  tired  of  them  in  that  character,  while  really 
he  had  never  heeded  them  at  all.  And  now  here  he 
was  in  Naples,  Kome,  Florence,  or  what  not,  "do- 
ing" famous  galleries,  monuments,  views,  and 
broadening  his  mind  amazingly  in  the  process.  It 
was  the  most  profitable  change  from  clubs  for  golf 
or  pigeon-shooting,  and  from  other  transplanted 
institutions  wherein  it  was  still  England,  England 
everywhere,  in  spite  of  foreign  skies. 

Now,  finally,  they  are  coming  home  to  Allonby 
Towers,  to  open  that  season  in  the  country  which 

16 


The  Yellow  Van 

•is  about  all  we  have  left  to  distinguish  the  major 
from  the  minor  great.  The  former  come  up  to  town 
for  a  lesson  in  humility,  for  they  find  their  best  and 
biggest  still  lost  in  the  crowd.  In  the  country,  with 
the  stately  setting  of  their  own  places,  they  loom 
large  on  the  public  gaze.  No  man  may  hope  to  rank 
even  as  a  good  second  in  our  modern  Rome. 

They  are  to  make  their  formal  entry  in  a  few 
days,  to  show  themselves  to  their  humbler  neigh- 
bors, and  to  entertain  friends.  Uncle  Gooding  had 
been  asked  to  join  the  house-party,  but  he  had  de- 
clined by  letter,  on  the  ground  of  an  unfortunate 
reminiscence.  On  his  first  and  only  visit  to  Eng- 
land, it  seemed,  he  had  been  put  up  by  another 
nobleman,  for  whom  he  was  negotiating  the  pur- 
chase of  a  ranch.  In  default  of  a  personal  atten- 
dant, he  was  valeted  by  a  servant  of  the  house — 
"a  fellow,"  as  he  wrote  in  confidence  to  his  niece, 
"who  sneaked  about  my  room  on  tiptoe  before  I 
got  up,  hiding  all  my  things."  The  statement 
really  meant  no  more  than  that  the  man  was  merely 
reducing  his  apparel  to  order  from  the  confusion 
of  the  gas-brackets  and  angles  of  picture-frames 
on  which  it  had  been  thrown  the  night  before.  It 
was  enough,  however,  to  prejudice  Mr.  Gooding 
against  distinguished  hospitality  for  the  rest  of  his 
life. 


Ill 


LLONBY,  with  its  countryside,  of 
course,  was  in  a  ferment  in  its 
own  way— like  a  vat  in  the  brew- 
house  with  its  excitement  still 
mostly  confined  to  the  depths. 
The  smaller  folk  were  hardly  less 
exercised  in  their  minds  about  the  newcomer  than 
their  betters.  If  one  set  asked,  "What  kind  of 
leader  of  society?"  the  other  was  no  less  concerned 
in  the  question,  "What  kind  of  almsgiver?"  The 
village  of  Slocum  Parva  was  the  center  of  these 
meaner  anxieties  just  because  it  was  the  most  in- 
significant speck  in  the  ducal  landscape.  One  could 
say  no  more  of  it,  as  one  took  in  the  view  from 
the  Towers,  than  that  it  was  there  somewhere,  amid 
the  dim  confusion  of  green  and  red  in  the  hollows 
below.  Slocum  Parva  was  rarely  disturbed  by  any 
event  from  without,  but  when  it  was  it  vibrated 
to  the  core  of  its  being.  It  was  different  at  Slocum 
Magna,  about  a  mile  higher  up  the  road.  Occur- 
rences that  might  fairly  be  classed  as  strange  had 
not  been  unknown  there,  even  in  that  purely  mod- 
ern period  embraced  in  historical  disquisitions 
which  have  their  starting-point  with  the  sixteenth 
century.  At  Slocum  Parva  the  very  mill  had  long 

18 


The  Yellow  Van 

ceased  work,  and  it  was  left  standing  only  because 
it  was  not  worth  the  expense  of  pulling  down.  The 
village  was  self-contained,  self-dependent,  and  it 
would  have  satisfied  the  exacting  conditions  of  re- 
pose of  Korea.  It  had  hitherto  been  only  a  frag- 
ment of  Slocum  Magna,  and,  seen  by  the  bird's  eye, 
it  was  but  a  bit  of  dark  red  in  an  undulating  land- 
scape, still  rich  in  all  but  the  absolute  perfection  of 
verdant  beauty,  even  in  this  August  time. 

This  truly  celestial  scene  stretched  right  up  to 
the  castle,  which  crowned  a  height  of  the  sky-line, 
and  which,  even  from  Slocum  Parva,  could  be  seen 
flinging  its  immense  ducal  banner  to  the  breeze. 
Here  and  there,  by  virtue  of  the  residential  color 
of  chimney  and  roof,  you  might  recognize  what  in 
these  parts  passed  for  a  settlement  of  men.  The 
nearest  town  of  Randsford,  some  four  miles  from 
the  village,  seemed  only  less  fast  asleep  than  the 
rest  of  the  landscape.  It  had  done  nothing  of  im- 
portance since,  in  an  outburst  of  energy  that  could 
not  last,  it  burned  a  Lollard  some  five  centuries 
ago.  The  Towers  and  the  other  country-seats  were 
still  but  part  of  the  green  and  red.  They  were 
marked,  according  to  their  degree,  by  the  greater 
symmetry  of  woodland  design;  and  they  were  so 
many  evidences  of  occupation  by  the  five  barons, 
the  ten  earls,  the  fifteen  baronets,  and  what  not, 
who,  according  to  the  local  almanac,  had  their  seats 
within  the  county. 

On  this  evening  of  the  mellowing  summer  Slo- 
cum was  assembled  in  committee  of  public  curiosity 

'9 


The  Yellow  Van 

on  its  patch  of  village  green  that  bordered  the  high- 
road. Workmen  had  arrived  from  London  to  con- 
firm the  public  report  that  the  home-coming  was 
to  be  in  state,  and  that  the  duke  and  the  tenantry 
between  them  would  make  a  brave  show.  They  had 
begun  already  to  border  the  line  of  route  with  those 
scaffold-poles,  unknown  to  the  experience  of  the 
Adriatic,  which  it  pleases  some  decorative  artists 
to  dignify  by  the  name  of  Venetian  masts.  They 
had  labored  in  this  way  all  day  long,  at  first  only 
under  the  close  but  silent  observation  of  the  urchins 
and  the  gossips,  but  now  under  the  eye  of  the  men- 
folk from  the  fields.  The  groups  were  as  yet  per- 
fectly distinct— the  observers  belonging  to  the  won- 
dering and  rather  suspicious  village,  the  observed 
to  the  cockney  contingent  who  mocked  them  with 
impunity,  by  virtue  of  their  mastery  of  an  un- 
known tongue.  The  former  held  together  for  moral 
support. 

In  the  foreground  Samson  Skett,  the  all  but  bed- 
ridden navvy  who  had  once  been  the  strong  man 
of  the  countryside,  leaned  on  his  two  walking- 
sticks  and  turned  a  glazing  eye  to  a  pennon  al- 
ready in  its  place.  And  near  him,  for  one  precious 
moment,  lingered  Job  Gurt,  the  blacksmith,  detained, 
though  unwillingly,  on  his  way  to  the  Knuckle  of 
Veal  Inn,  which  formed  the  background  of  the 
picture. 

Hard  by  stood  a  lad  and  lass  who  had  evidently 
wandered  into  the  composition  in  sheer  preoccupa- 
tion of  mind.  One  of  these,  George  Herion,  seemed 

20 


The  Yellow  Van 

a  candidate  for  the  honors  which  the  venerable  Sam- 
son had  long  resigned.  "Deft  his  tabor"  was  to  be 
surmised,  for  he  looked  light  of  limb;  and  "cudgel 
stout,"  at  need,  was  beyond  all  question,  for 
strength  was  written  all  over  him,  and  especially 
in  the  way  in  which  his  head  was  set  on  his  neck, 
and  in  his  deep  chest.  He  and  Rose  Edmer,  the 
pretty  dark-haired  girl  by  his  side,  his  match  to 
scale  in  the  lithe  vigor  of  youth,  were  intent  on 
each  other,  and  yet— at  once  in  spite  of  that  and 
because  of  it— without  eyes  for  anything  much 
lower  than  the  sky.  This  was  more  specially  true 
of  the  young  fellow.  He  was  unmistakably  in  that 
dawn  of  the  idyl  when  the  hopes  and  fears  are  in  a 
perfect  balance  which  a  hair  may  disturb  either 
way,  with  a  certainty  of  delicious  emotion.  Blessed- 
est  of  all  moments,  the  moment  when  one  is  not 
quite  sure!  Who  was  the  inestimable  sage  that 
defined  happiness  as  the  sense  of  constant  progress 
toward  a  desirable  object?  He  was  careful  not 
to  speak  of  attainment.  The  girl  was  as  yet  of 
those  who  have  only  to  let  themselves  be  loved  to 
make  happiness  enough  for  two. 

Another  female— the  term  is  obligatory  as  a  sign 
of  respect— was  old  Sally  Artifex  the  Methody, 
one  of  the  most  respected  characters  of  the  commu- 
nity by  reason  of  the  fact  that  her  life  of  incessant 
drudgery  best  represented  the  common  lot.  She 
almost  looked  her  simple  history,  which  was  a 
drunken  husband  long  since  laid  comfortably  out 
of  mischief,  and  a  family  "r'ared"  by  the  practice 

21 


of  all  the  virtues  on  the  part  of  his  widow,  espe- 
cially that  of  thrift.  She  was  at  this  very  moment 
on  her  way  to  chapel,  not  for  worship  indeed,  but 
only  for  the  scrubbing  of  the  floors,  without  preju- 
dice, of  course,  to  her  rights  as  communicant  on  the 
appointed  days. 

Old  Spurr,  the  small  farmer,  a  wild  figure  in 
shirt-sleeves  earning  a  precarious  subsistence  by  all 
but  incessant  labors  of  the  field,  had  suffered  himself 
to  be  drawn  for  a  moment  from  his  customary 
bounds. 

Even  the  constable  paused— the  constable,  Peascod 
by  name,  and,  to  make  it  somewhat  more  ridiculous 
by  the  accident  of  collocation,  Herbert  as  well.  That 
there  was  no  harm  in  him  seemed  to  be  attested  by 
his  moon-face,  and  by  his  tall,  gawky  figure,  as  of 
merely  incipient  manhood.  He  was  liked  in  the  vil- 
lage because  he  was  communicative  and  made  no 
secret  of  his  ambition  to  work  up  to  the  metropolitan 
service,  and  to  distinguish  himself  by  chasing  burg- 
lars over  warehouse  roofs. 

Rupert  Ness,  the  gamekeeper  of  Sir  Henry  Lid- 
dicot,  a  neighboring  baronet  and  landowner,  was 
naturally  in  the  company  of  Herbert  Peascod;  and, 
no  less  naturally,  his  eye  was  fixed  on  the  sturdy, 
thick-set  figure  of  the  poacher  Bangs,  who,  as  it  was 
near  nightfall,  might  reasonably  be  suspected  of  be- 
ing on  his  way  to  work. 

Really  intelligent  curiosity  was  represented  by 
Mr.  Grimber,  a  retired  tradesman  from  London,  who 
had  come  here  to  end  his  days  on  a  modest  com- 

22 


The  Yellow  Van 

petence  amassed  by  forty  years  of  strenuous  chan- 
dlery in  the  heart  of  Seven  Dials. 

Mr.  Bascomb,  the  High-church  vicar  of  Slocum 
Magna,  in  his  cap,  and  long  black  robe  tied  with  a 
sash  round  the  waist,  had,  in  his  scholarly  retire- 
ment, heard  of  the  event  of  the  day,  as,  in  his  clerical 
character,  he  might  have  heard  of  an  apparition. 
He  mingled  with  the  villagers  and  surveyed  the  scene 
with  an  air  of  aloofness  which  still  showed  a  friendly 
intent.  The  other  persons  were  the  infinitely  little 
of  Slocum  Parva,  mere  items  of  entry  in  the  parish 
register,  awaiting  their  only  chance  of  publicity  at 
the  judgment-day. 

Slocum  found  its  tongue  next  morning,  and  in 
that  and  the  few  days  following  it  lived  a  whole 
cycle  of  Cathay.  Its  inn  was  thronged,  and  not 
merely  because  the  weather  was  warm.  The  work- 
men from  town,  especially,  were  blessed  with  a 
natural  thirst  that  made  them  independent  of  the 
accident  of  the  seasons.  There  was  a  happy  hug- 
ger-mugger of  good-fellowship,  guzzle,  crowding, 
dirt,  and  bad  air  in  its  tap-room  and  bar-parlor, 
and  even  in  its  kitchen  and  outhouses,  which  took 
the  overflow.  Customers  came  from  all  parts.  The 
v  countryside  was  astir,  and  more  than  the  country- 
side. 

All  the  duke's  places  claimed  their  part  in  the 
celebration.  Allonby  might  have  the  best  of  it  as 
the  ancestral  home  and  residence,  but  Anstead,  in 
the  far  north,  brought  in  even  more  revenue  than 
Allonby,  and  Lidstone,  on  the  west,  was  not  to  be 


The  Yellow  Van 

left  out.  Then  there  was  the  London  estate.  Two 
of  the  properties  were  the  largest  and  richest  in 
a  country  which  is  the  richest  to  the  square  mile 
in  the  world.  They  had  all  the  main  essentials  of 
wealth— mines  and  flourishing  cities,  harbors  and 
ports,  endless  acreage  of  plow-land  and  pasture  all 
the  duke's,  with  a  great  density  of  population  which 
was  his  no  less  in  effective  ownership.  An  acre 
means  an  acre  in  such  a  realm,  and  as  for  a  league, 
well,  its  potentialities  are  hardly  to  be  realized. 
For  twenty  miles  round  at  Anstead,  as  for  thirteen 
here  at  Allonby  and  for  about  the  same  at  Lidstone, 
you  might  walk  without  setting  foot  on  any  man's 
land  but  the  duke's. 

And  these  were  only  the  massed  estates,  the 
places  his  Grace  might  condescend  to  name  if  any 
one  were  saucy  to  him.  The  fringes  and  pickings 
unattached,  any  one  of  them  a  domain  for  an  up- 
start, dotted  the  kingdom.  In  thirteen  different 
counties  you  might  call  out,  "Duke  of  Allonby! 
Duke  of  Allonby!"  and  that  great  nobleman,  or 
some  one  of  his  name,  would  be  there  to  answer, 
"Here  am  I."  There  were  three  peerages  in  the 
family.  There  was  in  all  some  quarter  of  a  million 
of  acres,  and  of  such  acres  as  we  have  seen.  The 
London  estate,  not  the  largest  of  its  kind,  was  ra- 
ther to  be  measured  by  the  square  foot,  so  precious 
was  its  content  in  squares  and  crescents,  and  even 
in  slums.  If  Allonby  Castle  had  been  bolted  by 
an  earthquake,  its  owner  would  still  have  had  his 
choice  of  half  a  dozen  other  homes,  each  stored  with 
the  spoil  of  the  ages  in  the  pomp  of  life. 

24 


The  Yellow  Van 

Perhaps  the  village  best  vindicated  its  wisdom  in 
its  readiness  to  accept  its  nickname  of  Silly  Slocum. 
Thankfulness  and  rest  seemed  the  lesson  of  its 
situation  in  such  a  landscape.  And  beyond,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  park  wall  of  red,  mellowing  into 
roan  with  extreme  age,  was  the  Eden  of  Allonby, 
a  veritable  garden  of  the  Lord.  How  easy  to  be 
good  in  such  a  place!  How  difficult  not  to  be  a 
poet,  if  only  impulse  obeyed  the  soft  persuasions 
of  nature,  and  faculty  went  with  mere  opportunity ! 
Everything  was  at  Allonby  in  garden,  wood,  or 
chase— all  "trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smell, 
taste,"  all  flowers  in  their  season  in  the  castle 
grounds,  or  out  of  it  in  the  conservatories,  cave 
and  waterfall,  fountain  and  "crisped  brook," 
breezy  stretches  of  open  country,  "shaggy  hills," 
thicket,  and  tufted  moor. 

Slocum 's  arch  of  evergreens  crowned  with  a 
vegetable  coronet,  and  relieved  at  intervals  with 
pendent  shields  bearing  the  ducal  blazon,  though  gen- 
erally considered  to  do  credit  to  the  taste  of  all  con- 
cerned, seemed  but  a  poor  approach  to  this  land  of 
wonders.  The  Venetian  masts  for  once  reduced  the 
straggling  highway  to  the  semblance  of  regularity. 
An  inscription  in  giant  needlework  spanning  the 
road, — "Welcome  to  our  Noble  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess,"—if  not  particularly  choice,  was  at  least  sim- 
ple and  well  meant.  And  the  villagers  had  done 
something  on  their  own  account.  Many  a  cottage 
exhibited  a  national  flag  as  supplied  by  the  cheap 
Jacks,  unyielding,  by  virtue  of  its  material  of  tin 
or  cardboard,  to  the  blandishments  of  the  breeze. 

25 


IV 


ENRY,  how  good  you  are  to  me!" 
Augusta  and  the  duke  are  in 
their  private  waiting-room  at  the 
station,  watching  the  procession 
as  it  forms  for  the  march  to  Al- 
lonby.  The  train  which  has 
brought  them  so  far  backs  coyly  out  of  sight,  as 
though  rather  ashamed  of  the  wreath  on  the  funnel 
of  the  engine. 

She  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  their  eyes 
meet. 

"It  is  all  done  for  you,  little  woman.  I  want 
to  show  them  how  proud  I  am  of  my  wife." 

They  have  come  down  for  the  great  day  of  the 
entry,  and  she  is  still  under  the  impression  of 
their  run  through  the  perfect  scenery.  Its  sug- 
gestion of  order,  peace,  prosperity,  of  a  toilet  made 
every  morning,  as  with  brush  and  comb  and  even 
tweezers,  has  appealed  to  her,  as  it  appeals  to 
every  one.  It  is  beyond  the  England  of  her  dreams. 
''Henry,  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  be  happy  ever 
after.  But  please  don 't  go  on  making  me  talk. ' ' 

The  absolute  novelty  of  most  of  it  is  part  of 
the  charm.  You  may  always  have  that  at  command 
by  crossing  a  frontier  for  the  first  time.  Every- 


The  Yellow  Van 

thing  looks  a  little  wilfully  wrong,  but  with  this 
it  has  the  air  of  being  quite  delightfully  itself. 
Even  Peascod  attains  to  originality  as  he  takes  his 
place  in  the  ranks  of  constabulary  that  are  to  lead 
the  way.  Their  helmets  are,  at  any  rate,  somewhat 
taller  and  uglier  than  the  variety  worn  in  town. 

The  first  section  of  the  procession  consists  of  the 
agricultural  estates  of  the  ducal  realm,  the  tenants 
holding  under  the  duke.  Here  are  the  large  far- 
mers on  horseback,  the  men  renting  by  the  five  hun- 
dred or  the  thousand  acres,  most  of  them  belonging 
to  the  smaller  gentry  and  some  to  the  greater. 
They  ride  as  masters  of  those  who  line  the  road, 
with  manifest  pride  in  their  great  and  well-ordered 
farms,  their  farm-houses  which  are  little  mansions, 
their  stately  use  and  wont  of  life— the  dinner-bell 
and  the  dressing-bell  before  it,  the  refined  woman- 
hood in  the  drawing-room  and  boudoir,  the  prize 
stock  in  their  stables,  whereby  they  make  a  living 
of  a  kind  out  of  land  ever  tending  to  cease  alto- 
gether to  rear  corn  and  men.  The  small  farmers, 
fifty-acre  men  aad  less,  are  to  follow  them  afoot, 
and  among  them  is  the  venerable  Spurr,  smartened 
up  for  the  occasion,  his  every-day  self  only  to  be 
recognized  in  his  still  untamable  beard  and  whisker 
and  his  iron  hair. 

"And  the  hired  hands  behind  them,"  says  Au- 
gusta, "in  their  store-clothes!  Why  don't  they  wear 
their  smock-frocks?" 

"Because  they  have  n't  got  'em,  my  dear.  No- 
thing of  that  sort  now  except  in  the  picture-books. 

27 


The  Yellow  Van 

By  the  by,  Augusta,  would  you  mind  saying  'agri- 
cultural laborers'?" 

"Oh,  Henry,  who  told  me  I  had  such  a  tiny 
mouth?" 

She  is  aware  of  a  secret  pang  of  resentment 
against  Kate  Greenaway,  but  she  keeps  her  own 
counsel,  if  only  for  fear  of  making  another  mis- 
take. But  for  this  she  might  have  ventured  a  re- 
mark on  the  vacuous  placidity  of  the  laborers' 
faces,  due,  though  she  does  not  know  it,  to  the  fact 
that,  among  the  fifty  of  them,  there  is  not  so  much 
as  a  yard  of  land  or  the  rudiments  of  a  syllogism. 

The  carriages  now  being  marshaled  into  line  re- 
store the  dignity  of  the  scene.  They  bear  the  chiefs 
of  the  districts  into  which  the  Allonby  estate  is 
marked  out— mostly  younger  sons,  for  the  appoint- 
ments are  much  coveted  by  men  of  family  with  a 
turn  for  field-sports.  The  agent  stands  between  the 
tenants  and  the  duke's  head  man— receives  their 
petitions  for  redress  of  grievance,  forwards  these, 
with  the  report,  to  the  central  office,  and  is  gener- 
ally a  little  governor  of  his  province. 

One  agent,  whose  years  and  bearing  do  not  sug- 
gest recent  service  in  the  cavalry,  is  hailed  with  a 
murmur  of  "There  go  old  Snatcher"  that  betokens 
a  sort  of  gruesome  admiration  on  the  part  of  the 
crowd. 

"  'Old  Snatcher'?"  murmurs  her  Grace,  as 
though  to  give  an  opportunity  for  an  explanation 
without  insisting  on  it. 

"A  mere  nickname,"  returns  the  duke,  evasively. 

28 


The  Yellow  Van 

This  personage,  who  has  seen  most  of  his  service 
under  the  late  duke,  is  indeed  the  most  skilful 
picker  up  of  unconsidered  trifles  of  common  land 
in  the  whole  countryside.  In  days  past  the  peasant 
had  his  rights  to  the  waste  land  as  well  as  the  lord. 
In  fact,  only  when  the  man  was  served  could  the 
master  stretch  out  his  hand  for  the  superfluity. 
Whole  generations  of  Snatchers  have  generally  put 
an  end  to  that,  but,  here  and  there,  precious  strips 
of  greensward,  dear  to  the  camping  gipsy,  remain 
by  the  roadside  and  elsewhere,  a  kind  of  no-man's- 
land.  The  venerable  Snatcher  has  a  way  of  grab- 
bing those  for  his  employer— ''snicking"  is  the 
local  term— which  is  unsurpassed.  First,  he  puts 
up  a  notice-board  warning  mankind  at  large  against 
trespass  and  its  consequences.  Then,  when  the  no- 
tice has  matured  into  a  kind  of  assumption  of  pri- 
vate ownership,  he  puts  up  a  fence.  The  fence,  in 
its  turn,  matures  into  a  full  recognition,  as  from 
time  immemorial;  and  the  strip  is  now  part  of  the 
ducal  domain. 

"He  seems  a  good  old  man,"  says  the  bride, 
ready  to  take  everything  for  the  best. 

The  bridegroom  says  nothing  to  the  contrary. 

Distant  strains  from  a  band  following  the  con- 
stabulary show  that  the  head  of  the  procession  has 
begun  to  move.  This  leaves  more  elbow-room  for 
the  next  section,  still  in  course  of  formation,  the 
staff  of  the  Yard.  The  Yard  is  still  a  peculiar  fea- 
ture of  some  of  the  old-fashioned  estates.  It  is 
the  great  industrial  village  nestling  under  the 

29 


The  Yellow  Van 

castle  at  the  other  side  of  the  ridge,  where  all  the 
needful  builders'  work  on  the  whole  stretch  of  the 
property  is  done  by  the  duke's  own  men.  It  is 
part  of  the  traditional  system  of  making  the  do- 
main sufficient  to  itself,  and  wanting  nothing  from 
the  world  without.  Here  are  forges,  workshops, 
and  the  like,  and  all  the  duke's.  The  overseer,  the 
foremen,  the  gangers,  marching  heads  up  and  with 
steady  step,  have  the  air  of  old  retainers,  proud  of 
their  service,  and  aware  that,  with  good  behavior, 
it  is  a  service  for  life.  Their  leader,  the  clerk  of 
the  works,  follows  in  a  carriage,  as  befits  one  whose 
business  it  is  to  decide  in  the  last  resort,  subject 
to  the  veto  of  a  superior  who  has  the  right  of  per- 
sonal audience  and  who  takes  the  pleasure  of  his 
Grace. 

More  music,  and  then  come  the  retainers  from 
the  north.  Anstead,  the  duke's  creation  as  a  plea- 
sure-city by  the  sea  and  his  property,  is  represented 
by  its  town  council  in  deputation,  a  dash  of  wel- 
come color  in  robe  and  chain.  The  great  seaport 
miles  away,  distinguishable  from  Anstead  with 
powerful  glasses  by  the  faint  haze  of  its  own  smoke, 
is  the  duke's,  too,  in  ultimate  ownership,  and  a 
due  share  of  its  rich  yield  in  the  profits  of  com- 
merce on  every  sea  goes  into  his  coffers.  Grave 
delegates  of  its  harbor  board  follow  the  municipal- 
ity of  Anstead,  to  do  their  homage  with  the  rest. 

The  whole  district  is  rich  in  mine  and  quarry, 
and  it  sends  the  representatives  of  the  companies 
mining  under  the  great  man.  Augusta  gives  a  lit- 

3° 


The  Yellow  Van 

tie  cry  at  the  sight  of  a  few  figures  in  outlandish 
rig  who  form  part  of  this  contingent.  They  are 
pallid  in  complexion,  but  wiry  by  the  evidence  of 
their  springy  tread. 

"Pitmen,"  explains  the  duke. 

They  wear  brand-new  mining-suits  as  a  decora- 
tive effect,  and  they  carry  their  lamps  and  the  wea- 
pon-like tools  of  their  craft.  The  duchess  regards 
them  with  wonder  not  unmixed  with  awe.  They 
have  that  strange  air  of  otherworldliness  common 
to  most  men,  even  the  roughest,  who  habitually 
bear  their  lives  in  their  hands.  Other  miners  and 
quarrymen  follow,  and  the  rear  is  brought  up  by 
the  mineral  bailiff,  a  dignified  person  in  a  closed 
carriage,  who  is  chief  officer  of  this  part  of  the  do- 
main. 

The  Lidstone  and  London  estates  march  together, 
as  being  too  far-fetched  to  claim  full  pride  of  place. 
They  are  separated  only  by  the  steward  of  Allonby 
Castle,  a  little  beyond  his  beat,  but  seen  in  all  the 
better  relief  on  that  account.  He  is  the  prime  minis- 
ter of  the  mere  household,  and  it  is  so  vast,  with  its 
army  of  servants,  and  so  engrossing,  with  its  huge 
tradesmen's  accounts  and  its  frequent  changes  of 
place,  that  its  intendant  need  hardly  yield  a  point 
to  a  viceroy  in  his  look  of  weariness  of  the  labors  of 
his  charge.  The  town  contingent  includes  clerks, 
agents,  architects,  and  surveyors,  some  of  them 
members  of  the  cabinet  council  of  the  board  that 
manages  the  London  property,  occasionally  under 
the  presidency  of  the  duke  himself. 

31 


The  Yellow  Van 

His  Grace  nods  to  the  next  comer,  the  great  man 
who  centralizes  the  general  management  of  the 
whole  territory  in  his  capacious  brain.  He  is  the 
only  one  of  all  the  throng  who  has  direct  personal 
relations  with  his  master  as  a  matter  of  right.  He 
sits  in  a  finely  appointed  carriage,  not  gaudy  but 
good,  behind  high-stepping  bays;  and  no  mandarin 
with  the  privilege  of  the  audience-chamber  could 
wear  a  loftier  air.  You  can  do  nothing  without 
him,  and  you  had  better  make  up  your  mind  to 
that.  He  dispenses  as  much  patronage  as  a  minister, 
and  he  holds  some  of  the  proudest  people  of  Eng- 
land in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  He  is  but  one  re- 
move from  supreme  greatness,  for  as  beyond  him 
there  is  nothing  but  the  duke,  so  beyond  the  duke 
there  is  nothing  but  the  King  of  England. 

The  nobility  and  gentry  whose  carriages  come 
next  in  the  line  are,  in  a  sense,  equals  of  the  duke, 
yet  they  yield  a  willing  homage  to  him  as  the  chief 
of  their  order.  Many  of  their  womankind  are  with 
them,  on  their  way  to  the  reception.  The  duke 
points  out  Sir  Henry  Liddicot,  his  near  neighbor, 
with  his  daughter,  a  fresh  rosebud  set  in  a  fine  con- 
fusion of  silk  and  chiffon,  whose  all  but  unattain- 
able white  and  red  wins  Augusta's  generous  praise. 
These  are  followed  by  the  superior  clergy,  a  prel- 
ate as  a  matter  of  courtesy,  and  many  members  of 
the  chapter  of  the  cathedral  which  has  its  site  in 
one  of  the  duke's  towns.  His  Grace  presents  to 
so  many  pulpits  that  a  wise  church  cannot  remain 
indifferent  when  he  brings  home  his  bride.  It  is 

32 


The  Yellow  Van 

divinity  still  in  the  good  company  of  law,  as  the 
latter  is  represented  in  the  file  of  gentry  by  the 
county  bench. 

The  marshal  of  the  pageant  now  enters,  hat  in 
hand,  to  claim  the  victims.  Augusta  feels  sure  all 
the  color  has  left  her  cheek  as  she  steps  forth  on 
her  husband's  arm  to  take  her  place  in  a  chariot 
and  four  with  postilions  and  with  outriders.  Her 
interest  in  the  crowd,  as  a  matter  of  narrative,  is 
henceforth  lost  in  the  crowd's  interest  in  her.  The 
whole  procession  is  now  on  the  march,  and  it  moves 
to  the  most  inspiriting  discord  of  shouting,  of  bra- 
zen instruments,  and  of  clanging  bells.  Slocum 
meanwhile,  unable  to  contain  itself  any  longer, 
sends  forth  swift  couriers  from  the  village  school 
for  tidings,  and  finally  one  returns  breathless  to 
announce  a  sound  of  trumpets  and  a  gleam  of  uni- 
forms and  arms.  The  villagers  turn  out  to  line 
the  street  behind  the  masts;  the  school-children, 
with  some  pushing  and  many  rebukes,  take  their 
places  for  the  choral  welcome;  and  then,  since 
there  is  nothing  more  to  do,  Slocum  stands  still  and 
listens  to  the  beating  of  its  own  heart. 

They  are  in  the  village  now,  and  the  volunteer 
band  blows  "The  Conquering  Hero,"  a  welcome 
relief  from  previous  excesses  in  the  "Wedding 
March."  The  strains  presently  cease  by  command, 
as  the  children  take  up  their  choral  song,  clear,  ex- 
quisite, and  penetrating  to  the  innermost  sense  with 
the  inalienable  innocence  of  the  singers,  let  the 
little  monkeys  be  what  they  may.  It  is  maddening 

3 

33 


The  Yellow  Van 

when  the  band  resumes.  The  very  frogs  in  the 
pond,  roused  from  their  broken  slumbers,  croak  a 
protest  that  serves  to  swell  the  volume  of  acclaim. 
It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  they  or  the  visitors 
best  represent  the  negligible  quantity.  The  gulf  is 
a  wide  one  between  both  of  them  and  Henry  Plan- 
tagenet  Mackenzie  Norice-Vesey-Ravelin-Harfoot, 
Duke  and  Marquis  of  Allonby  and  Lidstone,  Earl 
Ravelin,  Viscount  and  Baron  Rodmund,  Earl  Nor- 
ice,  and  Lord  Poynce.  There  was  more  of  it  as  the 
lawyers  compared  parchments  over  his  marriage 
settlement,  as  there  will  be  more  when  the  heralds 
recite  style  and  titles  over  his  grave. 

He  is  a  most  amiable  nobleman  to  the  view,  es- 
pecially as  he  now  sits  bowing  and  smiling  from 
his  seat.  The  features,  in  so  far  as  they  are  those 
of  a  race,  were  evidently  once  strong.  But  they 
have  been  rounded  by  centuries  of  easy  living,  and 
the  assurance  of  a  life  beyond  the  accident  of 
events.  The  eyes  have  lost  the  glare  of  those  of 
the  great  ancestor  who  held  the  French  duke  fast 
at  Crecy  till  the  first  of  the  Liddicots  came  up  to 
make  good  the  precious  prize  and  to  earn  that  fifth 
share  in  the  ransom  which  was  the  foundation 
of  both  their  fortunes.  The  chin  may  be  as  square 
as  ever  beneath  its  soft  coating  of  flesh,  but  there 
is  the  coating,  as  you  can  but  guess.  All  the  old  fa- 
mily faces  get  worn  down  in  this  way.  The  snub 
noses  of  the  Pharaohs  attest  the  dateless  age  of  their 
line.  Such  are  the  ravages  of  ineffable  calm;  and 
Eastern  art  has  done  well  to  choose  their  effects  for 

34 


The  Yellow  Van 

its  type  of  a  being  that  has  passed  beyond  all  per- 
turbation of  mortal  affairs.  The  duke,  in  fact,  in 
one  aspect,  is  a  Buddha  in  a  Bond-street  tie— the 
right  tie.  His  very  hair  is  neither  dark  nor  light, 
but  chestnut;  his  blue  eyes  sparkle  with  geniality 
but  with  no  stronger  flame;  his  features  are  regu- 
lar; his  eyebrows  form  an  easy  line;  he  seems  nei- 
ther tall  nor  short,  but  just  the  mean.  With  so 
many  stored  deeds  behind  him,  he  has  no  taste  for 
further  exercise  in  the  toils  of  the  arena.  He  looks 
as  restful  as  an  old  athlete. 

His  duchess,  whose  one  moment  of  misgiving  has 
long  since  passed,  wins  general  praise.  Her  dress- 
makers and  her  sense  of  self-respect,  between  them, 
have  wrought  wonders  in  fitting  her  for  her  new 
part.  It  is  the  governess  still,  but  the  American 
variety  of  the  type;  and  in  the  short  drive  she  has 
taught  herself  to  regard  the  roaring  crowd  before 
her  as  but  a  larger  class.  She  is  a  stately  creature 
in  Build  and  beauty,  a  Diana  of  Versailles  who  has 
stooped  to  the  yoke  of  marriage.  The  note  of  the 
face  is  dignity  with  animation.  It  looks  at  once 
supermundane  and  yet  aware;  above  the  meaner 
concerns  of  life,  yet  not  unmindful  of  their  exis- 
tence. All  beauty  has  its  particular  "message." 
Why  the  message  of  this  type  of  it  has  so  much  at- 
traction for  the  race  of  man,  which,  in  its  aggre- 
gate, rarely  rises  superior  to  petty  concerns,  is  a 
mystery.  Yet  it  is  perhaps  to  be  explained  by  the 
fact  that  we  are  prepared  to  admire  in  others  our 
own  unrealized  ideals,  and  that  next  to  succeeding 

35 


The  Yellow  Van 

on  one's  own  account  is  the  pleasure  of  beholding 
another  who  has  arrived. 

The  duchess  looks  as  magnanimous  as  we  all 
should  like  to  be.  She  is  therefore  as  interesting 
as  those  ladies  of  the  pagan  heaven  who  have  at 
once,  with  the  sense  of  mortal  anxieties,  the  power 
to  despise  them.  The  firm,  regular  features  are 
tempered  into  amiability  by  the  gracious  curves  of 
the  mouth,  by  the  lenity  of  the  eyes,  and  even  by 
the  magnificent  sweep  of  the  hair  from  the  brow, 
as  though  it  had  been  carried  backward  in  one  im- 
petuous gesture,  in  a  futile  attempt  to  escape  from 
the  oppression  of  a  mass  of  gold.  She  is  tall— one 
can  see  that  as  she  sits — and  queenly  in  her  bear- 
ing, in  being  superbly  at  ease  with  herself.  She 
bows  to  right  and  left,  looks  happy  and  even 
touched,  and  speaks  frequently  to  the  duke  in  run- 
ning comment  on  everything  she  sees.  The  village 
beauty,  Rose  Edmer,  is  evidently  one  subject  of  re- 
mark as  she  gazes  with  trance-like  fixity  on  the 
vision  of  commanding  loveliness  before  her.  In 
this  way  the  eyes  on  both  sides  meet,  as  though  in 
pledge  of  future  acquaintance.  "While  Rose  looks 
at  the  duchess,  George  Herion,  after  a  momentary 
glance  of  curiosity  at  the  carriage,  looks  at  her. 
The  arrangement  seems  eminently  satisfactory  to 
all  the  parties  concerned. 

Yeomanry  and  mounted  police  close  the  proces- 
sion, and  it  is  soon  lost  in  the  ample  grounds,  with 
their  twenty  miles  of  drives.  Then  it  winds  about 
till  it  comes  in  sight  of  the  castle  on  the  other  side 

36 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  the  lake,  with  the  time-worn  battlements  and 
towers  rising  from  their  foundation  of  solid  rock 
and  glowing  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  As  it 
nears  the  outer  gate  it  halts  to  enable  the  duke  to 
dismiss  his  humbler  friends  with  a  few  well-chosen 
words  of  thanks  and  of  welcome,  to  their  entertain- 
ment in  the  grounds. 

The  others,  after  leaving  the  barbican  and  the 
Norman  gateway,  alight  at  the  entrance  to  the  main 
building,  and,  passing  by  the  grand  staircase  and 
the  guard-chamber,  finally  reach  the  great  hall,  in 
which  the  reception  is  to  be  held.  There  is  no  ban- 
quet, for  there  would  be  too  many  to  serve;  but 
there  are  refreshments  which  the  reporter  in  the 
county  paper  will  in  due  course  describe  as  pala- 
tial. The  scene  is  one  of  wonderful  suggestiveness, 
as  the  county  and  the  dependencies  beyond,  in  their 
myriad  activities  of  wealth  and  industry,  file  before 
the  ducal  pair,  and  it  presents  no  bad  image  of  the 
state  of  a  modern  noble,  and  of  his  household  of 
agriculture,  trade,  and  commerce  which  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  household  of  arms. 


37 


jLONBY  is  the  new  planet  for 
Augusta.  Nothing  resembles  what 
she  has  left  behind,  except  the 
human  nature.  In  the  planet, 
according  to  Utopian  fancy,  they 
are  without  lungs,  without  stom- 
achs, or  without  feelings.  In  this  one,  while  still 
crouching  under  such  burdens,  they  are  like  none 
but  themselves.  They  begin  where  other  folk  leave 
off,  and  end  in  the  same  eccentric  way.  A  topsy- 
turvy world,  yet  such  a  world  of  its  own! 

The  one  compensation  is  her  immense  enthusiasm. 
She  has  come  as  a  believer.  It  is  still  the  England 
of  her  dreams — an  England  where  everything 
stands  out  romantic,  beautiful,  against  its  back- 
ground of  historic  past. 

Her  diffidence  about  herself  is  a  hindrance. 
What  would  she  not  give  to  be  a  mere  spectator, 
watching,  wondering,  taking  in,  with  nothing  to 
give  out,  and  thanking  God  meanwhile  in  whispers 
for  the  variety  and  design  of  his  universe.  But 
to  have  to  lead  the  dance! 

It  would  be  overwhelming,  were  it  not  for  the 
rooted  determination  in  her— a  sort  of  birthmark 
of  character— to  be  equal  to  her  fortunes,  whatever 
they  may  bring.  The  trial  that  has  come  to  her 


The  Yellow  Van 

is  none  of  her  seeking,  and  she  is  going  to  see  it 
through.  In  this  consideration  the  extremes  of  diffi- 
dence and  of  self-confidence  meet.  The  golden 
rule  for  travel  in  all  strange  places  is  notoriously 
to  keep  your  nerve.  In  this  way  you  keep  your 
head  along  with  it,  among  the  wildest.  Augusta 
is  at  present  in  a  circle  of  chiefs,  who  watch  her, 
though  not  unkindly,  for  the  slightest  sign  of  fear. 
And  she  is  so  frightened,  and  so  brave. 

Her  strong  points  are  those  of  the  ancient  Per- 
sians: she  can  ride  and  speak  the  truth.  The  rid- 
ing, in  one  of  her  station,  is  a  mere  accident  of  her 
life  among  the  ranches.  She  has  no  remembrance 
of  a  time  when  she  could  not  master  a  horse.  That 
mastery  wins  unwonted  indulgence  for  her  know- 
ingness  about  other  things. 

"My  dear,"  says  her  tutelary  dowager,  a  relative 
of  the  duke,  "don't  talk  booky  to  'em,  or  they  '11 
think  you  've  been  a  lecturer." 

"Aunt  Emily!" 

"Well,  yes,  I  know;  only  do  give  'em  a  chance, 
my  dear.  And  don't  let  your  travels  run  into  ar- 
chaeology. It  gives  them  a  turn.  Don't  mind  an 
old  woman's  counsel,  and  give  me  a  kiss.  I  'm  so 
delighted  you  're  goin'  to  be  friends  with  Mary 
Liddicot.  She  's  such  a  nice  girl." 

The  dowager  has  certainly  not  spoken  too  soon. 
The  two  younger  women— if  Mary,  as  a  mere  legal 
infant  of  seventeen,  is  to  be  reckoned  a  woman — are 
good  friends  already.  They  are  together  in  the 
private  garden  this  morning. 

39 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Why  not  sit  here,  duchess?"  And  Mary  throws 
herself  on  a  time-worn  step  of  the  terrace.  "We 
may  dodge  the  sun  for  an  hour  under  the  balus- 
trade." 

It  is  notorious  that  no  human  being  can  possibly 
be  half  so  good  as  some  women  look,  so  devotees 
must  e'en  make  the  best  of  the  limitations  of  our 
fallen  nature.  Here,  for  instance,  is  another  of 
them  who  seems  all  health  of  body  and  of  mind 
in  fresh  cheek,  clear  eye,  straightness  of  manner. 
Health  is  always  beauty  of  a  kind,  but  other  is  not 
wanting  in  the  fine,  firm  drawing  of  cheek  and 
brow,  tempered  into  expression  by  the  suavity  of 
the  mouth  and  the  benignant  eyes. 

"Will  the  steps  bear  us,  Mary?  That  is  the  point. 
And  please  don't  call  me  'duchess'  any  more.  Au- 
gusta is  my  name." 

"Why  not,d— I  mean  Augusta— as  to  the  steps?" 

"It  will  have  to  be  something  shorter  to-morrow; 
so  I  give  you  warning.  As  to  your  silly  question, 
look  at  the  crannies  and  the  moss." 

"Yes;  and  as  to  your  wise  answer,  don't  forget 
the  fresh  masonry  on  the  other  side." 

"The  old  order  and  the  new  patchwork,  eh, 
Mary?" 

"Just  like  Allonby,  at  any  rate.  We  are  more 
consistent  in  decay  at  Liddicot." 

"Well,  I  take  your  word  for  it;  for  who  ought 
to  know  Allonby,  if  you  don 't  ?  That  is  why  I  want 
you  to  show  me  round  my  own  place." 

"Then  come  to  the  bowling-green;  we  shall  be 

40 


The  Yellow  Van 

better  under  the  terrace  there.  Give  me  a  hand 
with  the  sketching-traps,  and  I  '11  lead  the  way." 

"Oh,  is  n't  it  just  lovely!"  cries  the  delighted 
duchess,  as  they  reach  a  stretch  of  faultless  turf 
lying  under  the  shelter  of  an  ancient  wall.  "But 
I  forget :  I  must  n  't  put  it  in  that  way. ' ' 

"Why  not?" 

"Slang— and  not  English  slang,  at  that." 

"What  's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"Mary,  you  must  help  me  in  these  little  things. 
Be  cruel  to  be  kind.  What  would  you  have  said 
now?" 

"What  about?" 

"About  the  loveliness." 

"What  could  I  have  said  but  'it  is  lovely'?" 

"Ah,  you  've  left  out  the  'just'  in  spite  of  your- 
self; so  I  stand  rebuked." 

Lovely  it  is,  for  want  of  a  better  word.  The 
sheared  grass  stands  as  firm  and  upright  in  its 
ranks  as  a  regiment  of  Spanish  pikemen.  The  wall, 
a  mere  accident  of  lusty  decay,  has  been  turned  to 
the  best  account.  It  is  paneled  by  its  buttresses, 
and  every  space  between  them  is  a  mass  of  flowers 
springing  from  a  bed  of  mold  at  the  base.  There 
are  more  flowers  in  the  coping,  with  potted  plants 
to  mark  the  lines  of  buttress,  and  the  whole  compo- 
sition has  the  time-worn  red  of  the  brickwork  for 
its  background.  A  clipped  hedge  forms  the  border 
on  the  other  side  of  the  alley,  and  gives  a  choice 
of  luminous  shade.  There  is  more  turf  beyond  the 
wall,  and  beyond  that  a  growth  of  wood  vast  and 

41 


The  Yellow  Van 

deep  enough,  to  all  appearance,  to  house  the  whole 
pagan  world  of  dryad  and  faun.  Impenetrable 
privacy  is  the  note.  Surely,  if  there  can  be  any 
sure  defense  against  the  siege  of  troubles,  here  is 
the  triple  line. 

"Too  beautiful,"  again  murmurs  Augusta. 
"Who  wants  to  play  at  stupid  bowls  in  such  a 
place— or  to  play  at  anything  except  being  in  hea- 
ven?" 

"Well,  you  must  decide,  you  know.  It  is  your 
garden,  all  yours.  Father  says  the  duke  himself 
would  hardly  intrude  without  asking  leave." 

"Mary,  we  '11  sit  here  all  day  long  and  read 
'The  Golden  Pomp.'  " 

"What  about  exercise?"  says  Mary,  simply. 

"Oh,  very  well.  I  '11  learn  the  stupid  game,  if 
I  must." 

"Why  should  you?  There  are  links  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wood.  Yours,  too.  'All  trespassers  will 
be  prosecuted'— even  from  the  house-party." 

' '  The  house-party ! ' '  echoes  Augusta,  with  a  sigh. 
"Well,  never  mind  all  that  this  morning.  Let  us 
just  sit  here  and  feel  sorry  for  most  of  our  fellow- 
creatures.  Ach,  du  lieber  Gott!" 

The  head  coachman  approaches  and  touches  his 
hat.  "Would  your  Grace  like  to  see  the  stables  this 
morning?  The  horses  came  down  yesterday." 

"Stables,  Mary?  Must  it  be  stables  now?  One 
might  as  well  be  back  home." 

"Well,  you  see  they  're  your  stables.  Jarvis 
might  feel — ' ' 

42 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Say  no  more,  my  dear." 

Mr.  Jarvis  is  very  proud  of  his  horses,  his  car- 
riages, his  harness-room,  of  all  that  is  his  as  head 
coachman  of  the  duke.  The  stables  are  marvelous; 
and  the  lodging  for  the  men  is  worthy  of  the 
lodging  for  the  beasts— you  can  say  no  more. 
The  woodwork  is  real  and  rare,  the  plated  metal 
is  as  good  as  silver  to  the  eye.  The  architect 
was  a  poet  playing  with  a  fancy  of  stately  comfort 
in  brick  and  tile  picked  out  with  crest,  coronet,  and 
monogram,  and  with  the  most  lavish  exercise  of 
invention.  The  mere  cleanliness  is  a  marvel,  too. 
Mr.  Jarvis 's  ideal  is  a  place  in  which  the  duke, 
should  he  ever  wish  to  do  anything  so  absurd, 
might  "eat  his  dinner  off  the  floor."  With  all  its 
brightness,  it  is  as  severe  in  taste  as  a  Greek  tem- 
ple. There  is  no  superfluity— if  only  for  that  rea- 
son, there  is  no  dirt.  There  is  only  everything  of 
the  very  best,  even  light  and  air,  and,  at  need,  arti- 
ficial warmth.  The  riding  horses  are  shown  by  the 
stud-groom,  a  swell  of  the  domestic  order  who 
wears  no  livery,  and  whose  office  is  of  historic 
origin.  The  splendid  creatures  in  residence,  glis- 
tening in  their  coats  to  match  the  general  scheme, 
turn  meek  faces,  with  eyes  of  fire,  as  the  visitors 
trip  from  stall  to  stall  without  once  having  to  lift 
a  skirt.  Here  is  Chieftain,  the  champion  hunter  of 
England,  who,  it  is  hoped,  may  carry  the  duchess 
herself. 

The  auguries  are  favorable.  "The  beauty— 
beauty!"  cries  her  Grace,  running  her  hand  over 

43 


The  Yellow  Van 

his  coat.  "We  're  going  to  be  the  best  friends  in 
the  world,  Chieftain."  And  she  lays  against  his 
neck  a  face  that  stands  out  fairer  than  ever  from 
the  background  of  bay. 

"Sixteen  hands,  or  hardly  an  inch  under,  your 
Grace." 

"Surely  not  quite  that!" 

"It  's  his  build,  and  good  proportions.  He 
matches  himself  all  over.  You  can  have  a  horse 
as  big  as  a  house  if  you  breed  him  right.  If  ever 
anything  happens  to  him,  I  '11  keep  his  skeleton, 
and  then  your  Grace  will  see  what  he  is  in  bone." 

"May  my  skeleton  be  ready  first!  I  'm  going  to 
love  him  too  much." 

"Augusta,  Augusta,  come  and  see  your  new 
ponies ! "  It  is  a  cry  from  Mary,  who  leads  the 
way.  She  stands  in  ecstasy  before  a  pair  matching 
in  everything  but  color,  and  in  that  a  sharp  con- 
trast which  shows  that  no  match  has  been  sought. 

"Twelve  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  is  what  the 
duke  paid,"  says  Mr.  Jarvis;  and,  like  a  wise  man, 
he  leaves  it  there. 

"He  is  too  good,"  murmurs  the  duchess. 

And,  after  all,  it  might  have  been  worse.  What 
of  that  queen  of  Egypt  who  had  the  revenues  of  a 
whole  city  to  keep  her  in  shoes  alone! 

The  ponies  are  skittish  and  resent  her  caress ;  but 
she  goes  away  with  an  uplifted  forefinger  that 
promises  a  speedy  struggle  for  the  mastery. 

"The  Yankee  trotter  is  for  the  duke.  Supposed 
to  beat  anything  in  this  country,"  says  Mr.  Jar- 

44 


The  Yellow  Van 

vis,  in  a  tone  which  marks  his  indifference  to  all 
that  lies  beyond.  "Your  Grace  might  like  to  see 
the  harness-room?"  His  h's  bespeak  his  social  al- 
titude. He  has  risen  by  them,  as  well  as  by  his 
skill  with  the  reins. 

It  is  a  wardrobe  of  fashion,  only  it  has  a  richer 
variety  of  suits.  The  more  costly  ones  shine  out 
at  you  in  gold  plate  and  patent  leather  from  their 
cases  of  plate  glass.  Even  the  least  costly  have 
that  kind  of  right  through  excellence  which  marks 
the  struggle  for  perfection.  The  best  that  money 
can  buy  is  Mr.  Jarvis's  estimate  of  its  claim  to 
notice;  and  he  is  right.  Where  it  forbears  orna- 
ment, the  leather  is  still  silky  to  the  touch;  and  the 
mastery  of  its  hand-stitching  might  bring  a  sad- 
dler's apprentice  to  his  knees. 

The  stud-groom,  in  the  interest  of  his  colleagues, 
now  urges  the  kennels,  the  stud-farm,  the  pedigree 
cows,  even  the  aviary,  since  there  is  everything  in 
the  wonderful  place.  But  the  duchess  has  to  tell 
him  that  these  are  for  another  day.  After  duly 
expressing  her  approbation,  she  turns  toward  the 
castle,  first  stopping  to  pick  up  a  bewildered  Jap- 
anese spaniel  which  has  followed  her  to  the 
grounds.  The  picturesquely  ugly  mite  is  of  course 
one  of  the  costliest  things  of  its  kind  in  all  Eng- 
land. Everything  is  of  price  at  Allonby.  The 
meanest  of  the  stable-hands  flitting  to  and  fro  on 
their  labors  in  the  glorious  sunlight  has  the  sense 
of  the  choice  and  the  exclusive.  The  fellow  spong- 
ing the  foolish  face  of  one  of  the  Jerseys,  that 

45 


The  Yellow  Van 

keeps  her  apartment  by  the  doctor's  orders,  is 
ready,  on  the  slightest  encouragement,  to  recite  her 
style  and  titles  to  the  distinguished  visitor.  Sally 
is  the  heroine  of  half  a  dozen  agricultural  shows, 
and  her  certificates  of  glory  are  nailed  in  black  and 
white  over  her  stall.  She  is  the  best  Jersey  in  all 
England,  bar  none;  she  fetched  the  best  price,  and 
she  belongs  to  the  best  duke  and  duchess  in  that 
favored  land.  It  makes  the  lowest  of  them  feel 
their  kinship  with  the  real  old  sort  of  the  founda- 
tion of  things ;  and  that  is  moral  impulse,  of  a  kind. 
Here  is  Allonby,  and  on  the  other  side  of  its  wall 
is  the  balance  of  the  world.  Their  very  expletives 
are  tempered  by  a  sense  of  the  dignity  of  their 
office,  and  even  their  occasional  profanity  is  counted 
but  another  mode  of  clean  speech  at  the  Knuckle  of 
Veal. 

The  ladies  are  for  turning  back  to  the  house,  but 
the  duchess  has  a  sudden  fancy :  ' '  Mary,  I  think 
I  '11  begin  to  be  good  friends  with  Chieftain  now. 
I  'm  wild  for  a  gallop.  Ask  them  to  saddle  him, 
while  I  run  inside  and  put  my  habit  on. ' ' 

"Augusta!     The  duke?" 

"I  thought  he  was  my  horse.  I  must  have  one 
spin  on  him,  if  I  die  for  it." 

Her  readiness  to  accept  this  gruesome  condition 
by  no  means  puts  the  stud-groom  at  his  ease. 
"Your  Grace  might  like  to  try  him  first  in  the 
riding-school.  We  don't  know  him  very  well  our- 
selves yet." 

"Hush!  he  'd  never  forgive  us  if  he  heard  us 
talking  like  that.  Wait  for  me  here,  Mary." 

46 


The  Yellow  Van 

She  scampers  into  the  house,  and  her  guide  turns, 
with  a  sigh,  to  give  the  necessary  orders.  They 
have  hardly  been  carried  out  when  she  reappears  in 
costume,  and  comes  running  toward  the  unhappy 
pair. 

' '  Her  Grace  took  it  into  her  own  head,  Miss  Mary. 
You  '11  bear  me  out  in  that—" 

"You  don't  think  it  might  be  better  to  wait,  Au- 
gusta? He  's  new  to  the  place,  you  see,  as  well  as 
to  the  people.  He  might—" 

"How  could  he,  now,  when  I  'm  going  to  give 
him  this  nice  lump  of  sugar?  But  it  's  not  for  the 
goodies,  Chieftain  dear,  is  it?  It  's  because  he 
likes  me." 

She  nestles  up  to  him  again,  caresses  him,  seems 
to  whisper  in  his  ear,  glances  at  his  girths,  and  in 
another  moment,  with  the  help  of  a  broad  palm, 
is  in  the  saddle,  with  the  reins  in  hand. 

"Adios,  Mary.    Just  one  spin  across  the  park!" 

"She  's  off,"  mutters  the  chief  officer,  evidently 
not  in  the  best  temper  with  her,  nor  indeed  with 
anybody,  including  himself. 

It  is  not  a  mad  gallop  by  any  means,  but  it  is 
a  smart  one.  Chieftain  is  fresh  and  skittish  for 
mere  joy  of  life,  but  he  has  a  foolish  idea  that  he 
could  get  on  better  if  he  had  the  spin  to  himself. 
He  flies  with  her  now  and  then,  and  once  or  twice 
shakes  himself  ominously,  as  though  thinking  he 
would  like  to  ask  a  question  before  accepting  her 
for  better  or  for  worse.  It  is  presently  asked  and 
answered.  As  soon  as  they  have  come  to  a  perfect 
understanding,  she  gives  him  his  head  for  a  run 

47 


The  Yellow  Van 

before  the  wind,  talking  pleasantly  to  him  the 
while.  Then,  just  as  he  begins  to  feel  he  has  had 
enough  of  it,  she  gently  eases  him  down  into  trot 
and  walk,  leaving  him,  and  perhaps  herself  for  a 
moment,  to  fancy  that  it  is  all  over.  But  there  is 
a  long  fence  between  them  and  the  spot  where  Mary 
and  the  others  stand,  and  it  is  clear  that  Augusta 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  take  it  on  her  way  back. 
The  gradual  change  in  Chieftain's  pace  shows  that 
he  has  received  the  necessary  orders,  and  soon  he  is 
in  full  course  for  the  obstacle. 

"I  don't  like  this  kind  of  circus  work,"  mutters 
Mr.  Jarvis,  wiping  a  cold  drop  from  his  brow.  "I 
can't  stand  it,  if  you  ask  me."  There  is  no  time 
to  say  or  even  to  think  more.  In  another  moment 
they  are  at  it,  and,  in  a  moment  again,  safe  and 
sound  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"She  's  done  it,  by—"  mutters  Mr.  Jarvis,  rein- 
ing himself  in  on  the  very  edge  of  expression. 
"This  must  be  my  lucky  day."  He  also  forbears 
to  add,  "Who  said  she  'd  only  been  a  governess?" 
but  it  is  in  his  mind.  His  only  additional  obser- 
vation is,  "She  '11  do." 

"Sorry!"  laughs  Augusta,  as  she  touches  earth 
and  her  friend's  cheek  once  more.  "It  had  to  be 
done.  I  was  beginning  to  feel — you  know.  But 
don't  look  so  cross,  dear!  I  guess  I  can  take  care 
of  myself  as  well  as  the  next  one  when  I  'm  on  a 
horse. ' ' 

"What  about  the  appointment  with  Mr.  Raif ?" 
was  all  that  Mary  allowed  herself  to  say. 

48 


The  Yellow  Van 

"With  Mr.  Raif?" 

"Yes:  the  domestic  chaplain,  duchess." 
"Augusta,  if  you  please— Miss  Liddicot!" 
"And  Mr.  Bascomb.     You  know  they  are  both 
to  come  to  you  this  morning  about  the  poor  in  the 
village.     I  dare  say  they  are  waiting  in  your  morn- 
ing-room. ' ' 

"Oh,  hurry  up,  Mary,  like— like  a  little  lamb, 
and  go  in  and  amuse  them  while  I  change.  I  '11  be 
down  again  before  you  have  finished  with  the  wea- 
ther." And  she  was  almost  as  good  as  her  word. 


49 


VI 


!j|R.  RAIF,  the  domestic  chaplain,  is 
the  born  conscience-keeper  of  a 
noble  pair,  sleek,  apple-faced,  un- 
wrinkled,  untroubled  by  a  doubt. 
He  has  cast  all  difficulty  of  that 
sort  behind  him  in  his  solitary 
volume  "The  Struggle  for  Faith,"  the  title-page 
of  which  is  the  sole  attestation  of  his  having  ever 
wrestled  with  a  fiend.  The  victory  has  been  so  un- 
mistakably on  the  right  side  that  it  has  left  him 
scarcely  a  memory  of  the  encounter.  The  work 
commended  him  to  the  duke  by  the  orthodoxy  of 
its  sentiments,  and  he  was  appointed  to  the  dig- 
nified office  of  reading  prayers  twice  a  day  to  the 
household.  He  has  thus,  by  anticipation,  entered 
into  the  joy  of  his  Lord.  His  parsonage,  within 
the  gates  of  the  domain,  has  a  wide  prospect  of  the 
scenery  that  may  easily  be  regarded  as  an  outlook 
on  the  plains  of  heaven.  There,  surely,  in  the  re- 
moter distance,  is  the  green  bank  in  a  flowery  val- 
ley where  angels  will  one  day  serve  far  more  excel- 
lent nourishment  than  afternoon  tea  to  him  and  to 
the  whole  croquet-party  on  his  lawn.  All  is  in 
harmony  in  the  celestial  view.  In  the  nearer  dis- 
tance is  the  model  village  of  the  domain,  in  which 

5° 


The  Yellow  Van 

Mr.  Raif  keeps  in  comfort  the  castle  poor— for  Al- 
lonby  has  its  pet  breeds  in  this  line,  as  in  horses 
and  cows— on  the  easy  condition  of  their  being  per- 
fectly virtuous  in  order  that  they  may  be  per- 
fectly happy.  They  rise  with  the  lark  and  retire 
with  the  other  reputable  birds.  They  carouse  on 
mineral  waters.  They  peruse  the  cheaper  British 
poets  in  a  reading-room  which  is  quite  a  little  mas- 
terpiece of  domestic  Gothic,  and  in  which  a  bust 
of  Shakspere  faces  a  bust  of  the  duke.  They  see 
Palestine  with  the  aid  of  lantern-slides.  So  may 
we  hope  to  enjoy  our  leisure  in  a  better  world. 

"Your  Grace  will  come  and  see  us  soon,  I  feel 
sure.  I  do  not  press.  The  multifarious  duties  of 
the  present  moment— I  know  something  of  their 
claims.  But  some  questions  are  urgent.  Our  wilder 
spirits  in  the  reading-room  are  getting  up  a  round- 
robin  for  beer." 

"Very  sad!" 

"I  was  glad  when  the  pitmen  who  came  to  the 
procession  went  back  to  their  homes.  They  do  our 
people  no  good.  Happily,  cock-fighting  on  bank- 
holidays  is  a  purely  acquired  taste." 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  like  him,  Mary,"  said  the 
duchess,  when  he  had  turned  his  back;  "but  some- 
how—well, I  dare  say  he  is  quite  a  good  man." 

"Mr.  Bascomb  is  my  favorite,"  returned  Mary. 
"See,  here  he  comes  through  the  gate.  I  wish  the 
other  looked  a  little  less  sure  both  of  earth  and 
heaven.  Dear  old  Bas !  His  hold  on  earth  is  of  the 
weakest.  He  contrives  to  look  untidy  in  spite  of  a 

51 


The  Yellow  Van 

cassock  that  hides  him  from  head  to  foot.  Even  a 
man,  one  would  think,  could  hardly  go  wrong  with 
an  overall  of  that  sort.  But  only  look  at  the  but- 
tons—all in  the  wrong  holes!" 

"Ah,  men  are  just  as  clever  in  muddle  as  in  all 
else.  One  of  us  would  have  blundered  into  the  right 
hole  midway— uncertain  sex.  Tell  me  something 
about  him  before  he  comes  up." 

"Great  scholar,  great  gentleman,"  said  Mary, 
breathlessly  talking  against  time  as  the  parson 
gained  on  them  in  his  toil  up  the  sloping  walk. 
"Warn  me  when  he  's  within  ear-shot,  but  remem- 
ber he  's  a  trifle  deaf. ' ' 

"Go  on:  still  half  a  minute  to  the  good." 

"Does  n't  believe  there  has  been  any  Christian 
church  to  speak  of  for  hundreds  of  years." 

"Oh,  Mary!  Only  ten  seconds  more.  Make  the 
best  use  of  them." 

"Thinks  that  Allonby  should  be  melted  down 
and  spent  in  making  everybody  good." 

"Why,  that  's  rank  Social—  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Bascomb?  Very  glad  to  meet  you.  Miss  Lid- 
dicot  has  been  saying  such  nice  things  in  your 
praise!" 

Five  and  forty  is  about  his  age,  but  his  untidi- 
ness adds  some  ten  years  to  the  rough  estimate.  A 
skullcap  worn  at  the  back  of  his  head,  at  a  slope 
that  suggests  miraculous  agency,  gives  an  effect  of 
the  innocence  of  childhood.  The  state  of  his  robe 
seems  to  show  that  he  has  been  valeted  by  a  house- 
maid who  has  mislaid  her  duster.  The  tall,  spare 

52 


The  Yellow  Van 

figure,  bent  with  the  toil  of  patristic  learning,  the 
high  Roman  cast  of  the  face,  are  so  many  notes  of 
the  mystic.  But  the  dreamy  eyes  have  that  in 
them  which  betokens  a  terrible  fellow  to  meet  in 
some  stock-exchange  concerned  with  the  transac- 
tions of  another  world. 

He  smiled  affectionately  at  Mary  and  took  her 
hand,  first  making  his  bow  to  the  duchess,  not  with- 
out grace.  This  done,  he  gazed  on  the  new  mis- 
tress of  Allonby  as  though  he  had,  at  once,  a 
perfect  sense  of  her  beauty  and  a  like  power  of  re- 
ferring it  to  the  same  category  of  impersonal  won- 
ders of  nature  as  the  rose  and  the  dawn. 

"It  is  a  joy  to  me  to  meet  you,  madam.  You 
have  so  much  power  for  good,  and  I  am  sure  you 
are  disposed  to  use  it." 

His  voice  is  music  in  its  intonations,  as  voices 
are  wont  to  be  when  they  have  ever  kept  close  touch 
with  the  spiritual  harmonies  of  which  music  is 
made. 

"I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  make  myself  useful, 
with  your  help.  But  there  seems  so  little  to  do 
here.  It  is  different  in  town." 

"Madam,  we  are  of  the  earth,  as  well  as  on  it. 
I  think  you  will  find  that.  Kest  assured  you  will 
not  languish  for  want  of  opportunity." 

"Mr.  Raif  has  promised  to  show  me  his  model 
village." 

A  slight  cloud  passed  over  his  features.  "I  have 
no  doubt  Mr.  Raif  has  done  his  best  with  it,  but 
somehow  these  questions  of  machinery— I  shall  be 

53 


The  Yellow  Van 

pleased  to  take  your  Grace's  opinion  on  all  the 
villages  at  some  future  time." 

The  conversation  soon  drifted  into  generalities, 
wherein,  however,  he  showed  himself  so  utterly  in- 
competent, or  at  any  rate  so  ill  at  ease,  that  the 
duchess  in  mercy  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  es- 
cape. On  leaving,  he  looked  at  her  again  with  a 
kind  of  awe,  and  seemed  to  take  her  in  from  head 
to  foot. 

"Pray  don't  flatter  yourself,"  laughs  Mary. 
"He  fixes  every  charming  woman  in  that  way; 
but  half  the  time,  you  know,  he  forgets  that  they 
are  alive.  I  do  believe  he  thinks  we  are  plants,  and 
that  one  day  he  '11  try  to  break  off  a  finger  for  a 
buttonhole.  He  used  to  lift  me  on  to  the  table 
and  look  at  me  like  some  little  image  of  piety,  all 
the  time  I  was  in  short  frocks.  It  was  done  quite 
without  distinction  of  persons.  He  treated  Rose 
Edmer  in  just  the  same  way.  Dear  old  thing— I 
do  love  him  so ! " 

"And  so  shall  I.  But  who  is  Rose  Edmer?  You 
know,  child,  you  are  my  guide  to  Allonby." 

"Rose  Edmer  is  the  village  beauty.  Every  self- 
respecting  village  has  an  institution  of  that  kind." 

"Then  I  know  her  perfectly  well.  Listen:  dark- 
eyed  as  well  as  dark-haired ;  heavy-eyed,  too,  a  little, 
by  reason  of  a  sort  of  lowering  mischief  in  the  lids. 
I  made  her  show  them  to  me  all  the  same,  for  they 
were  wide  open  as  I  passed.  Trouble  there,  if 
crossed.  The  face  a  good  oval,  not  so  much  by 
the  narrowness  at  the  chin  as  by  the  breadth  at  the 

54 


The  Yellow  Van 

cheek.  Lips  that  pout  more  with  determination 
than  with  caprice,  and  that  I  should  say  might  give 
great  satisfaction  in— other  uses.  What  a  little 
type !  No,  not  a  type  at  all,  but  just  her  individual 
self.  And  what  an  inventory,  eh?  Gracious!  it  's 
like  an  early  Victorian  novel." 

"That  's  the  girl.  True  as  steel,  I  should  say, 
if  you  win  her;  but  wants  winning  all  the  same. 
They  say  George  Herion  is  the  boy  to  do  it.  It 
will  be  a  pretty  game,  lost  or  won,  for  the  on- 
lookers. ' ' 

"George  Herion— I  never  saw  him." 

"Perhaps,  duchess,  because  he  never  saw  you, 
saving  your  presence,  all  the  same.  It  's  the  crisis 
of  his  fate,  so  I  hear— and  I  get  a  bulletin  almost 
every  morning  from  my  maid." 

"No  wonder.  It  would  never  do  to  let  love-mak- 
ing become  one  of  the  lost  arts;  so  let  us  all  keep 
an  eye  on  Phyllis  and  Corydon.  Ah,  what  a  land, 
what  a  land ! ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  whole  country  seems  like 
a  book— so  many  'Half  Hours  in  a  Library,'  illus- 
trated with  copperplates,  as  much  too  picturesquely 
good  to  be  true  as  a  scene  at  the  play.  That  feel- 
ing, I  remember,  came  on  me  with  a  perfect  rush 
at  Warwick.  I  saw  old  beadsmen  in  cloaks  that 
suggested  the  funeral  procession  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, walking  in  and  out  of  old  almshouses  to  match, 
with  an  old  Shaksperian  square  in  the  background. 
I  declare,  when  some  incongruous  old  thing  in  an 

.55 


The  Yellow  Van 

overcoat  and  a  stovepipe  hat  came  out  of  one  of 
the  houses  I  could  have  shaken  him  for  an  anachro- 
nism. And  in  the  market-place  I  believe  they  were 
roasting  an  ox  whole,  and  hiring  plowmen  and 
dairymaids  at  a  'statute'  fair." 

"But  how  would  you  hire  them,  Augusta?    You 
know  that  's  the  proper  way." 

"Who  said  it  was  not?    What  a  dear  old  land!" 
' '  How  do  they  hire  them  in  your  country,  then  ? ' ' 
"How  do  I  know— or  care?    Not  that  way,  that  's 
all.    No  such  luck." 

"What  a  funny  sort  of  country  it  must  be!" 
"No,  no.  It  just  spreads  itself  about  too  much 
to  be  anything  in  particular.  This  one  is  perfect, 
and  if  I  had  my  way  I  'd  put  it  all  under  a  glass 
case.  Our  glass  case  is  the  sky,  and  that  's  too  big 
for  comfort  to  the  beholder.  How  are  you  going 
to  keep  the  dust  off  five  and  twenty  miles  of  corn 
all  in  one  unbroken  line  ?  What  you  lose  in  breadth 
you  gain  in  variety,  intensity  of  impression.  A 
dozen  'vestiges  of  creation'  is  a  space  no  bigger 
than  the  back  of  your  hand !  I  want  to  label  it  all. 
At  least,  Mary,  help  me  to  label  out  the  'county,' 
that  mysterious  thing  you  were  telling  me  about 
the  other  day;  the  people  to  whom  I  have  to  go 
and  'pay  my  respects'  in  the  family  coach,  in  re- 
turn for  their  dutiful  performances  of  the  same 
sort  here." 

"Well,  first  you  want  two  big  glass  cases— one 
for  our  set  and  one  more  for  the  other." 

"Tell  me  about  the  other.     Our  set  I  am  begin- 

56 


The  Yellow  Van 

ning  to  know— birth,  acres,  long  settlement.  Oh, 
I  am  so  frightened  of  some  of  them,  Mary!  But 
don't  you  dare  tell.  I  'm  going  to  manage  them 
by  springing  right  into  the  cage,  firing  my  pistol, 
and  keeping  them  too  busy  with  the  trick  to  have 
time  to  devour  me." 

"They  don't  want  to  devour  you,  except  in  the 
way  of  kindness— nice  as  you  would  be." 

"Nonsense.  I  'm  certain  that  venerable  noble- 
man (is  n't  that  the  right  way  to  put  it?)  to  whose 
place  I  went  the  other  day  was  a  man-eater.  Not 
a  sign  was  wanting— the  long,  solemn  face,  the 
sepulchral  voice,  the  lean  family  drawn  up  behind, 
in  their  huge  cavern  of  a  drawing-room,  waiting 
for  their  prey." 

"Don't  be  so  unkind.  That  's  just  what  you  '11 
find  at  Liddicot,  I  warn  you,  when  you  come  to  see 
us  in  our  moated  hall.  How  can  people  help  being 
a  thousand  years  old?" 

"Child,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that." 

"Besides,  the  Ogrebys  and  ourselves  are  just  old- 
timers;  we  don't  set  up  for  being  smart.  But 
you  '11  find  plenty  of  nice  people  quite  up  to  date, 
I  assure  you.  Why,  look  at  Allonby  itself ! ' ' 

"Still,  Allonby  is  sometimes  rather  alarming. 
I  stumbled  into  the  family  mausoleum  the  other 
day,  railed  off  from  the  rest  of  the  church.  What 
a  scare — all  the  effigies  still  glaring  mastery  over 
the  destinies  of  men  from  sightless  orbs!  Another 
Temple  of  the  Sun,  with  the  embalmed  Incas  all  in 
rows  from  the  beginning  of  a  dateless  line — except 

57 


The  Yellow  Van 

that  the  Incas  sat  up  to  their  work.  And  then,  what 
about  the  people  who  are  not  nice?" 

"Oh,  you  '11  soon  know  more  than  you  want  about 
them.  They  're  the  real  danger.  You  '11  find  it 
hard  to  keep  out  of  their  clutches,  duchess  as  you 
are." 

"Are  they  so  very  hateful?" 

"Dreadful  people.  They  've  made  all  their 
money  in  business,  heaps  and  heaps  of  it ;  and  where 
we  are  in  any  way  salable  they  just  come  and  buy 
us  out.  Sometimes  they  issue  us  as  companies,  with 
our  names  on  the  prospectus." 

"Insolent  creatures;  and  with  their  own  money, 
too!" 

"You  don't  understand,  Augusta;  but  you  will." 

"Silent  contempt?" 

"How  are  you  to  keep  it  up,  when  they  make 
such  a  noise?  There  's  a  terror  of  a  man  down 
here  called  Kisbye  who  tried  his  hardest  to  get  a 
corner  in  your  procession  the  other  day.  His  house- 
parties  are  a  perfect  scandal,  and  he  's  got  the  very 
place  in  which  the  Parringtons  were  born." 

"Well,  it  's  easy  enough  to  keep  out  of  it  now." 

"Not  so  easy  as  you  think.  He  tries  to  do  every- 
thing, from  the  shooting  to  the  dinners,  twice  as  well 
as  everybody  else,  so  far  as  the  mere  luxury  goes. 
And  some  of  our  younger  sons  positively  go  there 
for  the  dinners.  Why,  even  my  brother  Tom— oh, 
it  's  a  shame !  And  they  make  game  of  it  all  when 
they  come  away." 

"And  we  both  think  that  's  a  greater  shame  still; 


The  Yellow  Van 

don't  we,  Mary?  But  don't  be  afraid:  I  am  going 
to  be  perfectly  orthodox  and  hate  Kisbye.  Only  just 
now  I  am  much  busier  with  attractions  than  repul- 
sions. I  do  so  want  to  like  everybody,  the  women 
above  all." 

"What  is  to  prevent  it?  I  am  sure  they  all  want 
to  like  you." 

"Sometimes  they  seem  so—" 

"So  what?" 

"So  near  and  yet  so  far,  like  the  star  in  the  song 
—so  effusively  indifferent,  so  cordially  cold." 

"Augusta!" 

"Oh,  don't  misunderstand.  It  's  nothing  per- 
sonal, to  you  especially— not  even  to  myself.  I 
am  sure  they  all  treat  me  exactly  as  they  treat 
one  another.  But  their  aloofness  is  sometimes 
a  trial.  I  suppose  it  's  the  smart  manner.  They 
don't  seem  to  care  a  hang  for  anybody  or  anything. 
Yet  underneath  that  mask  of  cynical  hardness  what 
wonderful  women  some  of  them  are!  They  know 
so  much,  and  they  've  seen  so  much,  and  they  Ve 
even  thought  and  felt  so  much,  and  they  seem  so 
very  much  ashamed  of  it,  after  all.  That  hard, 
short,  dry  style  I  've  seen  in  one  or  two  here !  None 
of  us  women  are  like  that  by  nature— mere  souls 
reduced  to  the  state  of  an  anatomical  preparation. 
Why  should  we  make  ourselves  such  pieces  of  bad 
art?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  I  suppose  it  must  be 
so,  since  you  see  it  so.  I  wonder  if  it  is  because 
they  are  trying  to  please  the  men?  I  remember, 

59 


The  Yellow  Van 

now,  how  Tom  changed  as  soon  as  he  went  to  Eton : 
not  much  kissing  good-by  and  kissing  how-d'-ye-do 
after  that.  He  did  give  me  a  furtive  hug  behind 
the  door  at  the  end  of  the  first  term ;  but  it  was  too 
good  to  last.  Our  men,  you  see,  won't  stand  what 
they  call  'gush.'  Will  yours?" 

"We  never  ask  'em,"  said  Augusta,  simply. 
"They  have  to  take  us  as  we  are.  It  does  them  a 
world  of  good." 

"That  's  it,  I  suppose.  You  never  let  them  get 
out  of  hand.  I  wonder  if  they  don't  like  you  all 
the  better  for  just  being  yourselves,  instead  of  try- 
ing to  talk  golf  and  races  and  stables  to  them,  and 
all  that." 

"They  like  us  well  enough,"  said  Augusta,  as 
simply  as  before.  ' '  But  never  mind,  dear.  '  When 
you  are  in  Rome'— you  know  the  rest.  And  I  'm 
going  to  get  Anglicized  as  fast  as  I  can." 

"Take  care  we  don't  get  Americanized  first  and 
save  you  the  trouble." 

"No;  my  turn  first.  Come  and  help  me  out  with 
my  visiting-list.  Here  's  a  Blyth,  I  see." 

"Excuse  me,  but  would  you  mind  not  sounding 
the  'th'?  You  know  you  asked  me  to  mention  any 
little  thing  of  that  sort." 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times;  but  shall  I  never 
call  a  fellow-creature  by  his  right  name  in  this 
country?  I  learned  'Coohoon'  and  'Chumley'  and 
'Abergenny'  from  a  Sunday  paper  before  I  came 
out,  and  I  thought  I  was  through.  The  rule  of  it, 
the  distracting  rule?  Shade  of  Ward  McAllister, 

60 


The  Yellow  Van 

will  nobody  give  me  a  glimpse  into  first  principles? 
Is  it  something  like  this :  always  sound  one  English- 
man 's  name  as  some  other  Englishman  writes  his? 
I  suppose  we  must  be  'Applebys,'  as  we  begin  with 
an  'AP;  and  Halifax  is  sounded  as  'Gomshall,'  dear 
—say  it  is;  and  'Waldegrave'  as  'Zoroaster,'  by  way 
of  giving  a  neighbor  a  lift." 

"Augusta,  you  are  really  unfortunate  to-day! 
It  's  'Walgrave,'  at  any  rate,  as  true  as  I  live." 

"Mary,  Mary,  we  've  gossiped  away  half  the 
morning,  and  we  've  a  whole  house-party  on  our 
hands.  Besides,  I  must  have  a  first  peep  at  the 
village  this  afternoon." 

"Which  one-Mr.  Kaif's?" 

"No;  little  Slocum.  That  's  more  to  my  taste. 
But  he  may  come  all  the  same,  if  it  's  part  of  his 
show. ' ' 


61 


VII 


T  was  no  easy  matter.  In  these 
exalted  regions  the  simplest  in- 
cident has  to  be  contrived.  A 
duchess  from  Allonby  can  hardly 
walk  into  Slocum  Parva  as  you  or 
I  do.  Nothing  merely  occurs  in 
such  lives:  everything  is  matter  of  specification. 
Mr.  Jarvis  had  to  be  consulted  about  the  carriage, 
and  he  put  the  priceless  ponies  in  harness  by  way 
of  giving  them  an  airing.  Her  Grace  would  fain 
have  walked,  but  she  was  told  it  was  unusual  in  the 
circumstances.  Then  the  housekeeper  was  sent  for. 
In  such  houses  domestics  are  as  keenly  concerned 
for  the  privilege  of  menial  office  as  are  nobles  in  a 
court  of  claims  contending  for  their  right  of  bear- 
ing a  towel  or  a  pair  of  spurs  at  a  coronation.  In 
vain  may  the  unhappy  object  of  their  attentions 
wish  them  at  the  devil.  It  is  their  "perquisite," 
not  his  luxury,  and  the  thing  is  done  for  the  doer's 
sake.  Custom  ordained  a  hamperful  of  goodies  and 
physic  whenever  a  Duchess  of  Allonby  went  among 
her  subjects  for  the  first  time. 

"You  may  go  in  an  old  frock  and  a  waterproof 
later  on,"  said  Mary,  as  she  stepped  in  after  her 
friend.  Augusta  sighed  and  took  the  reins.  Mr. 
Raif  and  a  man  in  livery  were  in  the  rear. 

62 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  drive  in  the  fresh  air,  stirred  by  a  rush  from 
a  gap  in  the  distant  hills  and  cooled  by  a  recent 
shower,  was  exhilarating.  The  road  was  all  vistas 
contrived  by  centuries  of  landscape-gardening  on 
the  grand  scale.  The  village  looked  as  blandly 
beautiful  as  a  mezzotint.  Where  the  red  tile  failed, 
brown  thatch  continued  the  curves  of  the  exqui- 
sitely broken  line.  A  glory  of  honeysuckle  and 
other  climbers  covered  window  and  porch;  the  gar- 
den patches  were  in  their  later  and  richer  bloom. 
A  lady,  apparently  on  her  travels  in  search  of  the 
picturesque,  rose  from  her  easel  and  bowed  as  the 
duchess  passed.  The  children  were  still  at  their 
lessons,  but  a  shuffle  of  feet  as  the  carriage  skirted 
the  school  seemed  to  betoken  the  spontaneous  dis- 
ruption of  a  class.  Their  mothers  meekly  awaited 
developments  in  the  gloom  of  interiors,  as  though 
following  some  ritual  of  becoming  behavior  for 
the  Last  Day. 

Mr,  Raif  made  a  good  showman.  The  carriage 
stopped  here  and  there  as  he  gave  the  word,  and 
the  duchess  saw  tidy  homes  adorned  with  chromo- 
lithographs of  the  royal  family,  bright  furniture, 
and  clean-aproned  matrons  bobbing  reverence  from 
the  knees,  for  want  of  mastery  of  the  art  of  lateral 
extension.  It  distressed  her.  "Please  don't  be  so 
respectful,"  she  said  at  first,  until  she  saw  that, 
with  their  training,  it  gave  them  even  more  embar- 
rassment to  withhold  than  her  to  accept.  Then  she 
yielded  with  one  sigh  more.  And  besides,  resis- 
tance was  not  in  the  spirit  of  a  scene  which 

63 


The  Yellow  Van 

seemed  to  put  to  shame  the  placard  of  a  county 
paper  outside  the  grocer's  shop  announcing  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death  in  other  parts  of  the 
earth. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road  a  bent  figure  of  age  came 
in  sight.  It  was  the  octogenarian  Skett,  the  broken- 
down  navvy  whose  acquaintance  as  one  of  the  non- 
descripts of  village  life  we  have  already  made.  He 
dragged  himself  homeward  with  the  help  of  his 
two  walking-sticks  and  of  a  pair  of  lower  limbs 
which  seemed  ready  at  any  moment  to  strike  work 
for  life. 

"Poor  old  man!"  cried  her  Grace,  reining  in 
the  ponies.  "Open  the  hamper,  James,  and  see 
what  you  think  he  would  like." 

"Quite  unnecessary,  duchess,"  said  Mr.  Raif, 
rather  hastily;  "he  is  well  provided  for,  and  I  'm 
afraid  he  is  not  much  of  a  man  for  dainties." 

"Tell  me  something  about  him." 

"There  is  really  little  to  tell.  He  was  a  good, 
honest,  hard-working  fellow  in  his  day,  though  not 
very  saving,  I  'm  afraid;  and  we  do  what  we  can 
for  him  now." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  returned  Mr.  Raif,  in 
some  confusion,  "but  I  can  easily  find  out." 

"And  where  is  your  cottage,  old  man?"  said  her 
Benevolence— perhaps  by  way  of  protest  against 
that  tyranny  of  the  middleman  which  is  the  curse 
of  our  time. 

But  Mr.  Raif  was  not  easily  baffled.     "He  lives 

64 


The  Yellow  Van 

alone;  and  I  am  afraid  your  Grace  might  hardly 
care—" 

"It  ain't  nor  a  stone 's-throw,  neyther,"  piped 
Samson,  "if  anybody  's  a  mind  to  come  and  see 
a  f  eller-creetur. "  There  was  desperation  in  his 
manner;  the  vision  splendid  was  not  to  be  suffered 
to  fade  without  a  struggle  for  better  acquaintance. 

"May  I  come?"  said  the  duchess. 

"And  thank  you  kindly,  if  you  don't  mind  walk- 
ing," returned  this  more  terrible  infant  of  second 
infancy:  "you  got  good  legs." 

The  duchess  evidently  bore  no  malice;  Mr.  Raif 
looked  unutterable  horror. 

It  was  one  of  a  row  of  brick-built  cottages  in 
the  execrable  taste  of  most  modern  work  of  this 
kind.  They  formed  a  sort  of  back  street  for  the 
village,  and  their  manifest  avoidance  of  all  out- 
ward display  bore  the  suggestion  that  even  in  Slo- 
cum  there  was  something  not  meant  to  meet  the  eye. 
Their  sites  were  part  of  a  clearance  made  by  the 
old  duke  in  accordance  with  the  general  policy  of 
keeping  down  population  by  keeping  down  house- 
room.  But  the  old  duke  had  cut  it  too  fine,  and 
had  destroyed  so  rashly  that  his  successor  had  been 
obliged  to  build  again  to  house  his  own  laborers. 
Still  the  area  of  ruin  exceeded  the  area  of  restora- 
tion; and  the  population  of  Slocum  was  smaller 
in  our  period  than  it  had  been  at  the  close  of  the 
middle  ages.  It  had  finally  attained  to  that  state 
of  perfect  numerical  balance  which  is  the  glory  of 
the  statistical  tables  of  France.  The  governing 


The  Yellow  Van 

idea  of  the  modern  scheme  of  architecture  was  the 
upturned  box  with  holes  in  it,  the  smaller  openings 
as  windows,  the  larger  as  doors.  A  lower  box,  if 
it  may  be  so  described,  was  the  day-room,  an  upper 
the  bedroom,  and  the  two  made  a  building  which 
might  serve  to  remind  a  Chicago  sky-scraper  of  the 
modesty  of  its  origin.  The  doors  were  an  unneces- 
sarily close  fit  for  the  inquisitive  figures  by  whom 
they  were  now  filled.  One  of  the  latter,  Mrs.  Arti- 
fex,  seeing  what  company  Samson  was  about  to  en- 
tertain, now  came  into  his  cottage  to  "speak  up 
for  him"  in  conjunctures  wherein  his  own  modesty 
or  his  own  courage  as  a  petitioner  for  charitable  fa- 
vors might  be  expected  to  fail.  The  principle  im- 
ported a  future  exchange  of  good  offices  of  the 
same  sort  on  his  part. 

His  room  was  untidy.  It  was  the  penalty  of 
age  and  infirmity  with  him,  as  with  most  of  his 
neighbors.  Their  partners  were  mostly  in  the 
churchyard.  Their  young  people  had  gone  to  fight 
for  themselves  in  the  world.  The  old  were  the  mere 
wastage  of  the  settlement,  kept  there  only  because 
they  refused  to  enter  the  workhouse,  and  on  a 
scanty  allowance  of  outdoor  relief  by  which  the 
guardians  made  a  reasonable  bargain  for  the  rate- 
payers. 

Samson's  way  of  doing  the  honors  was  all  his 
own. 

"Sit  ye  down,  my  loidy;  here  be  old  Sam  Skett 
a-waitin'  his  call— all  that  's  left  on  him,  all  that  's 
left!" 

66 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Remember  where  you  are,  Skett,"  said  Mr. 
Raif,  severely;  "that  's  hardly  the  way  to  speak  to 
her  Grace." 

"Oh,  please  let  him  speak  as  he  likes,"  said  Au- 
gusta; "he  won't  hurt  me." 

"You  be  a  beauty,  an'  no  mistake,"  cried  the 
delighted  old  man.  It  was  a  tribute  to  moral  quite 
as  much  as  to  physical  worth.  Mr.  Raif  cast  pro- 
testing eyes  upward,  and  a  still  more  protesting 
chin. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Samson's  manners  had 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  advancement  in  life.  He 
was  not  one  of  the  courtly  poor,  and  his  obtuseness 
left  him  beyond  the  reach  of  Mr.  Raif 's  art  as  an 
introducer  of  indigence  to  the  notice  of  the  great. 
Most  of  his  neighbors  in  this  row  were  in  the  same 
plight.  Mr.  Raif's  choicer  specimens  were  the 
trained  bands  of  the  model  village  within  the  do- 
main, and  the  select  few  of  Slocum  Parva  whom  he 
had  just  left.  These  had  become,  under  his  tui- 
tion, as  sleek  as  any  peasants  in  old  china.  Poor 
Skett  was  but  the  ignoble  savage  of  the  rural  scene. 
He  was  still  magnificent  in  his  ruin— a  giant  in 
beam,  well-nigh  as  broad  as  long,  and  not  short  at 
that.  And  nature  seemed  again  to  assert  his  bro- 
therhood with  the  ox  in  the  great  flat  face,  and  in 
the  neck  all  dewlapped  with  wrinkles.  The  blue 
eye,  bleared  though  it  was  with  age,  betokened  the 
Frisian  peasant  of  almost  pure  descent.  His  brown 
skin  was  a  diaper  of  the  seams  of  age  and  toil  which 
made  him  look  like  something  in  rhinoceros  hide. 

67 


The  Yellow  Van 

His  history  was  that  of  many  an  English  laborer 
of  his  day.  He  was  one  of  the  earth-men  of  our 
railway  age,  and  he  had  left  his  lasting  mark  on  the 
planet  with  pick  and  shovel.  He  had  read  nothing, 
—for  the  best  of  all  reasons,— thought  nothing, 
hoped  nothing,  but  had  just  dug,  fed,  and  slept. 
It  was  enough  for  pride.  "  Worked  on  the  first 
railway  made  in  this  warld,"  he  piped,  ''an*  worked 
all  over  the  country  after  that,  Aye,  an'  my  own 
brother  went  to  a  place  called  France  an'  Spain  to 
make  more  railways  there  under  Muster  Middle- 
mass—old  Middlemass— whose  son  's  a  lord  now. 
You  '11  find  that  reet." 

"What  a  fine  strong  man  you  must  have  been!" 
said  the  duchess. 

The  compliment  gave  Sally  an  opening  for  the 
neighborly  office  of  the  song  of  praise.  "Aye,  your 
Grace,  'e  wur  a  good  un  in  's  time— could  wheel  six 
'undredweight.  'Is  old  feyther  wur  a  good  un  too. 
Made  nothin'  o'  liftin'  up  a  'undred  in  each  'and." 

"Aye,  an'  used  to  win  beer  wi'  it,"  muttered 
Samson,  as  though  editing  her  with  notes. 

"Well,  this  'ere  man  'e  could  lift  fifty  more. 
'Never  give  in'— that  was  'is  motter;  'e  was  real 
cruel  at  's  work.  Took  a  job  on  the  roads  when  'e 
'ad  to  give  up  his  navvyin',  an'  one  day,  when 
'e  wur  over  seventy,  they  finds  'im  lyin'  in  a  faint 
beside  's  load  o'  stone." 

"I  'ad  n't  give  in,  mind  yer,"  annotated  Samson. 
"I  'd  been  knocked  out  o'  time.  Ricked  ma  back- 
that  's  what  a  did." 

68 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Aye,"  interposed  Sally;  "an'  thowt  nothin'  o' 
buttin'  'is  'ead  through  the  panel  of  a  door,  in  's 
prime. ' ' 

"Don't  you  tell  tales  out  of  school,"  said  Sam- 
son, shyly;  "young  men  will  be  young  men." 

It  was  honored  age  rebuking  an  untimely  allu- 
sion to  the  follies  of  youth.  He  felt  that  it  was  a 
generous  folly  still,  and  that  he  had  lived  it  down. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  are  comfortable  now." 

"Two  an'  six  a  week  from  the  parish,  an'  six- 
pence extry  for  coals  in  the  bitter  weather.  Got 
to  be  careful— rent  out  of  it,  and  every  blessed 
thing." 

"He  's  so  lonesome,  your  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Arti- 
fex;  "that  's  the  worst  on  't.  Fell  out  o'  bed 
t'  other  night,  an'  cut  'is  face." 

"It  war  n't  nowt,"  he  chuckled.  "Why,  old 
Grutt  'e  'urt  'isself  same  way  a  month  ago,  an'  he 
ain't  well  yet." 

Mr.  Raif  was  manifestly  ill  at  ease.  It  was  not 
exactly  the  show  for  a  mistress  of  Allonby;  and 
he  made  a  move  for  the  door. 

The  duchess  was  content  to  follow,  but  she  wished 
first  to  make  the  old  man  a  present,  and  she  fum- 
bled at  her  purse.  There  were  difficulties.  She  had 
yet  to  attain  to  full  mastery  of  the  value  of  the 
coins  in  it,  for  the  British  monetary  system  is  not 
exactly  a  thing  that  comes  by  the  light  of  nature. 
If  half  a  crown  a  week  kept  him  going,  it  would  per- 
haps be  unadvisable  to  give  him  so  much.  But  what 
was  half  a  crown  ?  It  was  more  bewildering,  in  the 

69 


The  Yellow  Van 

circumstances,  than  Peel's:  "What  is  a  pound?" 
She  pecked  wildly  therefore,  at  the  first  thing  that 
came  to  hand— a  florin,  as  it  proved.  Then— how 
to  offer  it  to  him  without  wounding  his  self-respect  ? 
With  her  lifelong  associations,  she  had  scruples  on 
this  point  which  had  not  been  wholly  overcome  by 
her  short  experience  of  European  travel.  The 
good  things  in  her  hamper  were,  after  all,  mere 
presents  of  courtesy,  if  you  chose  to  look  on  them 
in  that  light;  but  a  tip  in  hard  cash  to  one  who 
had  been  a  workman,  and  was  no  tramp  of  the 
roadside ! 

"Would  you  allow  me  to  offer  you  a  little— a 
little  change?"  she  said  timidly,  slipping  the  florin 
into  his  palm  of  horn. 

To  her  intense  relief,  Samson  did  not  hurl  it  to 
the  ground  with  the  pride  of  the  free-Horn.  He 
only  said,  "Thank  ye  kindly,"  and  fobbed  it  with 
the  avidity  of  a  Tantalus  who  has  unexpectedly 
caught  a  bite. 

Mr.  Raif  looked  vainly  round  for  a  diversion, 
until  it  came  by  the  mere  compulsion  of  his  desire, 
as  they  passed  one  of  the  honeysuckle  cottages  on 
their  way  to  the  carriage. 

A  neatly  dressed  girl  was  standing  in  the  porch, 
half  hidden  in  its  shade,  and  evidently  keeping  an 
eye  on  the  road. 

The  duchess  whispered  to  her  friend:  "Why, 
surely,  Mary,  it  is  your  village  beauty,  Rose- 
Rose-" 

"Rose  Edmer.    Oh,  is  n't  it  funny!    She  's  wait- 

70 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  on  his  way  home  from 
work ;  and  she  '11  vanish  as  soon  as  he  comes  in  sight. 
She  's  dairymaid  at  Allonby,  you  know,— one  of 
your  people,— and  he  a  laborer  at  Kisbye's— you  re- 
member George  Herion,  the  young  fellow  I  told 
you  about  to-day.  Do  speak  to  her,  Augusta.  She 
is  so  sweet." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  moment  for  an  introduc- 
tion, for  Rose  wanted  anything  but  company,  even, 
as  we  have  seen,  the  company  of  George.  She  was 
in  the  earliest  and  perhaps  the  most  entrancing 
stage  of  the  divine  complaint.  George's  love  for 
her,  admiration  for  her,  was  her  first  initiation  into 
love  and  admiration  for  herself.  Hitherto  she  had 
been  a  chit  of  a  girl,  half  aware,  or  scarcely  aware 
at  all,  that  she  was  anything  out  of  the  common. 
He  had  lifted  her  into  the  fullness  of  the  realiza- 
tion of  personality,  and  had  brought  into  her  soul 
the  exquisite  delight  of  the  feeling  that  she  was 
part  of  the  beauty  of  the  world.  From  this  came 
wonder,  pride,  joy  in  herself— nay,  a  kind  of  rev- 
erence of  her  own  girlhood.  Oh,  the  music  of  it! 
All  the  things  she  had  done  before,  not  knowing 
there  was  anything  in  them,— fetching  water  from 
the  well  (he  had  spoken  with  a  rude  rapture  of  her 
beauty  as  she  stood  there),  plucking  berries  from 
the  garden  for  the  meal,— were  now  sanctified  as 
so  many  things  that  gave  her  a  part  in  life.  She 
had  grown  from  child  to  essential  woman  in  a  night, 
with  the  thought  of  that  part.  She  loved  George— 
though  as  yet  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  tell  him  so 

71 


The  Yellow  Van 

—  for  loving  her.  Of  course  she  was  in  no  hurry. 
What  joy  to  go  on  forever  like  this,  to  be  merely 
courted  and  adored! 

And,  besides,  she  must  not  make  herself  too 
cheap.  There  was  always  that  dreadful  warning 
of  her  mate  in  the  dairy,  Silly  Jane.  Jane,  yet 
little  more  than  a  child,  had  suddenly  found  love 
in  the  confession  of  a  stable-boy  of  much  the  same 
standing,  and  had  forthwith  called  her  playmates 
about  her  to  make  solemn  renunciation  of  childish 
things.  There  could  be  no  more  hide-and-seek,  or 
skipping-rope:  she  had  a  sweetheart  now.  The 
ceremony  included  the  refusal  of  her  dinner  as  a 
public  function.  She  wanted  nothing  but  a  slice 
of  bread  and  butter,  and  the  right  to  sing  softly  to 
herself  all  day  long.  The  whole  village  knew  it: 
it  was  a  jest  at  the  Knuckle  of  Veal.  Then  one 
day,  goaded  thereto  perhaps  by  the  banter  of  the 
inn,  the  stable-boy,  without  a  word  of  warning, 
gave  a  penny  to  an  infant,  and  told  her  to  seek 
Silly  Jane  with  the  message  that  he  had  had  enough 
of  her.  The  message  was  duly  delivered  before  a 
whole  household,  and  for  a  day  or  two  Jane's  pa- 
rents thought  it  prudent  to  keep  watch  on  the  well. 
The  precaution  was  unnecessary.  Silly  Jane  re- 
sumed her  dinner  and  her  skipping-rope,  not  much 
the  worse,  except  that  she  was  more  of  a  laughing- 
stock than  ever.  Better  death  than  that  fate  for 
Rose.  So,  as  Mr.  Raif  opened  the  garden  gate  to 
summon  her  to  the  presence  of  the  duchess,  she 
abruptly  fled  from  the  porch,  and  locked  herself 

72 


The  Yellow  Van 

in  her  chamber,  with  a  determination  to  die  rather 
than  meet  any  lady  in  the  land. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  this  agreeable  diversion,  Mr. 
Raif's  feelings  were  doomed  to  yet  another  shock. 
The  ponies  were  in  full  trot  for  the  castle  when  they 
showed  a  disposition  to  shy  at  a  strange  object  sur- 
rounded by  awe-struck  urchins  on  the  village  green. 
It  was  a  huge  covered  van  of  the  kind  used  by 
traveling  showmen ;  it  was  painted  in  bright  aggres- 
sive yellow,  and  it  bore  the  announcement  of  a 
"Lecture  on  the  Land  and  the  People"  for  that 
very  night.  The  mystery  was  deepened  by  the  cir- 
cumstance that  the  vehicle  was  as  yet  hermetically 
closed,  and  that,  having  no  horse  in  the  shafts,  and 
to  all  appearance  no  human  being  in  charge,  it 
gave  not  a  sign  of  life. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  said  Mary. 

"Radicals,  I  am  very  much  afraid,"  said  Mr. 
Raif. 


73 


VIII 


HE  yellow  van  had  decidedly 
stolen  a  march  on  Slocum  Parva. 
None  paid  heed  to  it  as  it  entered 
the  village,  because  it  looked  so 
much  like  a  van  conveying  a  fat 
lady  to  business  at  a  distant  fair. 
But  the  wiser  sort  soon  saw  reason  to  repent  of 
their  indifference.  The  placards  calling  for  ''the 
restoration  of  the  land  to  the  people  and  of  the 
people  to  the  land,"  and  the  aggressively  displayed 
opinions  of  eminent  persons  on  this  subject,  told 
their  own  tale.  The  worst  sign  of  all  was  that  the 
vehicle  had  stopped  as  on  a  camping-ground,  its 
driver,  after  releasing  the  old  horse,  having  gone 
off  in  search  of  quarters  for  the  night.  So  much, 
and  no  more,  was  to  be  learned  from  the  awe-struck 
urchins  beginning  to  cluster  about  the  door. 

The  duchess  pulled  up,  and  she  was  for  staying 
to  hear  the  lecture;  but  on  this  point  Mary  came 
to  the  aid  of  Mr.  Kaif : 

"You  really  mustn't  think  of  such  a  thing,  Au- 
gusta.   It  would  never  do  down  here.    Only  fancy 
a  Duchess  of  Allonby  taking  notice  of  a  thing  like 
that!   Don't  you  know  what  it  means?" 
"How  can  I,  until  I  hear  what  it  says?" 

74 


The  Yellow  Van 

"I  feel  sure  it  would  annoy  the  duke." 

The  duchess  flicked  the  ponies  without  another 
word,  and  Slocum  Parva  was  left  to  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  its  mystery. 

No  sound  came  from  the  van  for  some  time,  but 
at  length  the  patience  of  the  youthful  watchers  was 
rewarded  by  an  infant's  wail  within,  and  finally 
by  the  sight  of  a  gentle  face  at  the  doorway,  as  its 
owner,  the  wife  and  mother,  offered  a  penny  to  any 
one  who  would  fetch  her  a  pail  of  water.  The  ap- 
parition, however,  was  too  alarming,  and  it  had  the 
momentary  effect  of  dispersing  the  whole  swarm 
in  hasty  flight. 

There  was  really  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  The 
little  house  on  wheels  was  but  the  mission  van  of 
a  "movement,"  and  it  had  come  out  this  year, 
after  its  wont,  for  its  village  campaign  against 
the  feudal  system.  Its  fortunes  were  nearly  always 
the  same— apathy  and  fear  on  the  part  of  the  peas- 
antry, a  contemptuous  refusal  to  fight  on  the  part 
of  the  feudal  system,  and  that  most  plentiful  lack 
of  funds  which  in  England  necessarily  attends  un- 
dertakings still  awaiting  the  patronage  of  the  no- 
bility. Nobody  made  anything  by  the  society.  Its 
itinerant  lecturers  worked  for  only  as  much  as  would 
keep  body  and  soul  together ;  but  they,  and  its  whole 
tiny  frame,  were  kept  going  by  a  Band  of  enthusiasts 
who  maintained  the  subscription  lists  at  a  level  of 
mediocrity.  It  was  an  interesting  situation :  on  the 
one  hand,  a  still  vigorous  growth  of  law  and  custom 
covering  all  England,  and  on  the  other  this  little 

75 


The  Yellow  Van 

thing  in  yellow,  assuredly  the  tiniest  engine  of  war 
ever  sent  out  against  a  giant  power  intrenched  in  its 
pride.  For  comparison,  a  catapult  against  the  rock 
of  Gibraltar  might  serve  our  turn. 

In  due  course  the  lecturer  reappeared,  and  his 
wife  passed  the  baby  to  him  across  the  hutch  for 
a  run  in  the  open  air.  He  was  a  tall,  well-knit 
young  fellow,  with  regular  features,  and  with  the 
orator's  potential  flash  in  the  light  of  his  eye.  The 
whole  manner  of  him  betokened  a  way  of  managing 
crowds.  He  dispersed  the  returning  infants  with  a 
peremptory  "Be  off  with  you,  and  tell  your  fathers 
to  come  to  the  meeting  when  your  mothers  have  put 
you  to  bed,"  at  the  same  time  presenting  his  wife 
to  the  gathering  audience  with  apologies  because 
it  was  "not  a  gipsy  this  time." 

"I  've  found  a  chairman,  Amy,  and  a  place  for 
the  van,  too— both  birds  with  one  stone.  He  '11  let 
us  a  whole  field  for  the  night  for  eighteenpence,  so 
we  sha'n't  do  badly  at  that.  But  there  '11  be  two 
miles  to  travel  still." 

"Get  it  over  as  soon  as  you  can,"  said  the  wife, 
"or  it  will  be  another  twelve-o'clock  job;  and  one 
does  bob  about  so  in  those  fields  in  the  dark. ' ' 

"Anything  since  I  went  away?" 

"No,  dear;  the  same  jokes  about  the  van." 

"I  fancy  I  hear  them  now,  especially  when  they 
are  thrown  at  the  window,  and  only  miss  it  because 
they  are  aimed." 

"I  think  I  heard  somebody  call  it  a  'yaller-fever' 
van." 

76 


The  Yellow  Van 

''That  's  new;  we  must  be  thankful  for  small 
mercies  on  the  road.  We  've  known  what  it  is  to 
trace  the  same  joke,  with  local  variations,  all  the 
way  from  Land's  End  to  John  o'  Groat's. 
Haven't  us,  old  girl?" 

"I  think  I  '11  put  baby  to  bed.  She  does  keep  so 
wakeful,  unless  she  goes  off  before  the  chairman's 
speech." 

The  infant,  now  chasing  an  inquisitive  duck  with 
some  prospect  of  success,  was  herself  chased,  cap- 
tured, and  carried  into  the  van,  not  without  pro- 
tests of  the  usual  kind.  Her  father,  however,  soon 
turned  the  current  of  her  thoughts  by  opening  the 
door  and  bringing  out  the  materials  of  his  platform, 
which  he  put  in  position  in  front  of  the  van.  This 
done,  he  gave  the  child  a  farewell  kiss  for  the  night, 
and  then,  closing  the  door  on  his  family,  laid  aside 
the  husband  and  parent  to  become  the  tribune  of 
the  people. 

His  first  care  was  to  beckon  a  rugged  figure  from 
the  crowd,  and,  having  hauled  his  man  up  to  the 
platform,  to  propose  him  as  chairman  of  the  meet- 
ing. The  election  of  this  functionary  was  duly  put 
to  the  assembly,  and  was  supposed  to  be  carried  by 
the  remark,  "Why,  blest  if  it  ain't  old  Spurr!" 
The  lecturer  had  made  his  choice  with  judgment, 
for  the  sight  of  the  familiar  form  of  the  farmer  of 
a  small  patch  in  the  neighborhood,  who  toiled  for 
all  the  days  of  the  year,  and  for  all  the  feasts  of  the 
church,  to  make  his  rent,  had  a  distinctly  reassuring 
effect  on  the  electorate.  They  seemed  to  draw  some- 

77 


The  Yellow  Van 

what  less  close  to  one  another  and  closer  to  the  van. 
As  a  mere  stranger  the  lecturer  would  certainly 
have  lacked  magnetism,  in  spite  of  his  plausible 
ways. 

The  two  who  drew  closest  were  George  Herion 
and  Rose,  who  had  paused  in  momentary  interrup- 
tion of  their  evening  stroll.  These  and  a  few  more 
stood  for  the  modest  villainage  of  the  place,  while, 
a  little  apart  from  them,  Ness  the  gamekeeper  and 
Constable  Peascod  seemed  to  represent  the  feudal 
system,  vigilant,  and  perhaps  somewhat  over- 
manned. For  by  their  side  was  Mr.  Grimber,  the 
retired  tradesman  who  always  supported  the  landed 
interest,  with  Mr.  Kisbye,  the  London  gentleman  in 
business  who  rented  the  adjacent  hall.  The  latter 
surveyed  the  scene  from  the  elevation  of  horseback, 
from  time  to  time  making  suggestive  play  with  his 
whip-handle  on  a  well-booted  leg. 

Mr.  Spurr  made  a  model  chairman.  He  showed 
no  disposition  to  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth 
of  the  speakers  that  were  to  follow  him.  His  ora- 
torical generalities  on  the  land  question  were  decid- 
edly a  failure,  perhaps  by  reason  of  his  opening 
statement  that  in  assuming  his  present  position  he 
did  not  mean  no  offense  to  nobody.  So  many  people 
was  poor,  and  so  many  was  working  their  'earts 
out  at  the  same  time,  that  he  thought  there  might 
be  no  'arm  in  giving  something  new  a  bit  of  a  trial. 
He  did  not  wish  to  go  beyond  that.  In  the  look 
and  manner  of  him  he  suggested  Job  pleading  for 
a  dab  of  ointment,  just  by  way  of  experiment.  If 

78 


The  Yellow  Van 

it  failed,  one  would  still  be  strengthened  for  resig- 
nation to  the  sores. 

"A  tell  you  true,  neighbors,  A  cannot  make  ma 
rent  and  fill  ma  belly.  If  A  don't  send  every  bit 
to  market,  A  'm  behind 'and,  and  A  'm  sometimes 
glad  to  get  a  lick  o'  lard  for  ma  bread.  So  now 
A  '11  ask  yew  to  'ear  this  young  man." 

None  of  the  country  dialect  is  now  pure.  The  free 
communication  between  county  and  county,  and, 
above  all,  between  county  and  London,  has  spoiled 
all.  It  is  but  a  hash  of  the  old  local  form  inter- 
mingled with  abundant  cockneyisms  to  spoil  the  dish. 
You  may  hear  bits  of  Somerset  in  the  eastern  coun- 
ties and  bits  of  Northumbrian  at  the  Land's  End. 
It  is  not  even  consistent  with  itself.  The  same 
speaker  will,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  use  one  and 
the  same  word  in  its  townish  setting  and  in  the 
earlier  country  one  to  which  he  was  born.  The  school 
boards  are  more  especially  responsible  for  that. 

The  lecturer  swung  into  his  place,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment or  two  had  got  into  his  stride.  He  took  them 
all  in  from  beneath  pent  brows,  and  seemed  to  know 
where  to  pitch  his  voice  for  laughter,  and  even 
for  a  tear  at  need.  "You  are  a  landless  people," 
that  was  the  burden  of  it,  "and  while  you  are  land- 
less you  must  be  poor.  If  anything  happened  to 
your  manufactures  to-morrow,  and  something  is 
going  to  happen  before  long,  you  would  be  on  your 
beam-ends.  But  the  town  won't  be  able  to  save  the 
country  forever,  and  we  shall  all  starve  together  if 
we  don't  look  out." 

79 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Oh,  shall  we?" 

The  interruption  raised  a  laugh,  and  so,  appar- 
ently, answered  the  sole  purpose  of  the  inevitable 
wag  of  the  meeting.  It  was  uttered  in  a  kind  of 
squeak,  and  it  might  have  come  from  one  of  a  group 
of  stable-boys  belonging  to  the  castle.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  be  more  precise,  such  was  the  author's  mas- 
tery of  the  artifice  of  "throwing  the  voice." 

"No  other  civilized  folk  in  the  world  is  quite 
such  a  stranger  to  its  own  soil  as  you  are.  Some  five 
hundred  members  of  the  peerage  own  a  third  of  the 
workable  acreage  of  the  whole  country.  The  rest 
of  us  have  to  take  our  luck  in  a  kind  of  raffle  for 
what  is  left.  Most  of  the  land  is  kept  as  a  rich 
man's  toy,  for  ornament  and  not  for  use,  for  parks 
and  gardens,  game-preserves,  and  the  devil  knows 
what.  A  good  deal  of  it  is  owned  by  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, even  when  it  seems  to  be  owned  by  the 
nobility  and  gentry.  These  other  gentry  in  the  city 
have  too  much  fellow-creature  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness, and  they  like  to  hear  the  cuckoo  for  a  change. ' ' 

The  voice:  "Cuckoo!" 

The  lecturer,  evidently  a  seasoned  campaigner, 
was  not  to  be  stopped  in  his  rush. 

"Most  of  the  big  owners  can  live  on  their  invest- 
ments in  every  good  thing  that  is  going,  from  China 
to  Peru.  They  don't  want  to  live  by  the  land. 
Even  if  it  's  worked  for  a  profit,  it  won't  keep  the 
three  that  have  to  live  out  of  it,  owner,  farmer,  and 
laborer,  so  the  laboring-man  has  to  go  to  the  wall. 
He  still  gets  his  wages  in  shillings,  in  an  age  when 

80 


The  Yellow  Van 

there  's  no  keeping  soul  and  body  together  without 
a  bit  of  gold.  Have  it  or  leave  it,  they  don't  want 
you  as  husbandmen.  They  lay  down  the  land  in 
pasture,  and  tell  you  to  go  to  the  towns,  and  you 
have  to  go, -whether  you  like  it  or  not.  I  defy  you 
to  find  a  single  acre  to  live  on,  or  to  live  by,  without 
their  good  leave.  Try  to  start  a  business  in  a  vil- 
lage, or  to  tickle  the  fields  into  a  harvest  on  your 
own  account,  and  see  what  they  '11  say  to  you  as 
lords  of  the  soil.  How  many  did  Slocum  Magna 
keep  in  the  old  days  ?  "We  know  it  by  the  records- 
three  times  the  number  it  keeps  now.  Look  at  the 
size  of  the  old  church." 

The  voice,  whose  method  seemed  to  be  simplicity 
itself : 

"Just  look  at  it  now!" 

The  chairman:  "  'Old  yer  tongue,  will  'ee?" 

It  was  a  little  too  much,  even  for  the  lecturer. 

"One  at  a  time,  gentlemen;  but  flunkies  next 
turn,  with  all  my  heart."  It  won  the  laugh  and — 
peace. 

"The  feudal  system  has  come  down  to  you  with- 
out a  break,  except  in  its  forms,  and  the  new  one 
is  worse  than  the  old.  The  old  lord  had  duties,  and 
he  paid  for  the  right  of  owning  his  fellow-creatures 
by  finding  men  and  money  for  the  service  of  the 
state.  The  new  one  has  only  his  rights,  and  the 
chief  of  them  is  to  keep  the  smoke  of  a  poor  man's 
chimney  out  of  his  sight.  "What  the  nobles  did  not 
want  was  left  as  waste  land  for  the  poor,  and  there 
was  a  living  to  be  made  out  of  it.  How  much  is 

81 


The  Yellow  Van 

left  now?  Every  inch  is  mapped  and  owned— and 
come  if  you  dare!  Saxon  chiefs  or  Norman  lords 
in  the  fullness  of  their  power  were  not  in  it  with 
the  landowner  of  to-day.  He  has  got  you,  body 
and  soul.  The  parson  is  actually  his  nominee,  and 
often  his  poor  relation.  The  farmers,  who  are  al- 
most the  only  employers  of  labor  besides  himself, 
are  his  tenants  at  will,  and  possibly  his  debtors. 
The  tradespeople  of  the  village  rent  under  him,  and 
even  if  they  don't  they  can  be  ruined  by  his  frown. 
The  laborers  live  in  his  cottages,  and  are  absolutely 
at  his  mercy  for  the  privilege  of  hiring  a  bit  of  al- 
lotment land— hiring,  not  owning ;  mark  that  well ! 
He  is  usually  the  magistrate ;  and  so  he  and  his 
administer  the  law  that  should  stand  between  you 
both." 

He  went  on  without  further  interruption  until  a 
cry  of  "Daddy!"  from  the  domestic  apartments  of 
the  van  was  smothered  before  it  could  obtain  com- 
plete utterance.  Such  as  it  was,  it  occasioned  an- 
other break  in  the  magnetic  current,  and  he  had  to 
hurry  on  to  save  the  situation: 

' '  Till  the  other  day  you  had  less  local  government 
in  the  villages  than  they  had  for  centuries  before 
and  for  centuries  after  the  Conquest.  But  mark 
this:  next  spring  Slocum  Parva  is  going  to  elect  its 
first  parish  council,  and  to  come  into  line  with  the 
rest  of  the  country.  Make  the  most  of  it.  Try  to 
do  a  little  bit  for  yourselves.  Put  your  own  men 
in,  and  your  own  women,  too,  if  you  can  find  any 
willing  to  stand,  and  do  your  best  in  your  day  of 

82 


The  Yellow  Van 

small  things,  hoping  that  the  great  will  come.  Bet- 
ter late  than  never.  Who  '11  stand  when  the  time 
comes,  and  who  '11  work  for  it  now  ? ' ' 

"I  'm  your  man,  master!"  cried  George  Herion. 
"Put  me  down." 

The  crowd  seemed  thunderstruck  by  this  unex- 
pected declaration,  and  Constable  Peascod  made  an 
entry  in  his  note-book,  as  though  to  take  the  speaker 
at  his  word.  Mr.  Kisbye  glared.  It  was  the  only 
other  sign  of  animation.  Not  a  peasant  of  them 
spoke,  or  even  stirred  to  look  at  George.  The  lad 
had  shown  some  excitement  during  the  speech,  but 
even  the  few  who  had  noticed  it  never  expected 
this.  He  was  now,  for  the  moment,  awed  into  si- 
lence by  his  own  temerity,  though  he  still  flushed 
defiance  and  resolve.  There  was  intense  anguish  in 
the  eyes  of  Kose.  The  manhood  of  Slocum  Parva 
at  length  took  courage  to  pretend  to  be  idly  busy  in 
lighting  its  pipe,  while  it  eyed  the  constituted  au- 
thority of  squire  and  policeman  over  the  grimy  edge 
of  the  bowl.  Finally  Mrs.  Artifex  ventured  on  a 
fatuous  "That  do  seem  roight."  This,  however, 
was  hardly  enough  for  the  business  of  the  meeting, 
and  the  lecturer  resumed : 

"Does  anybody  want  to  ask  a  question?" 

Nobody  wanted  to  ask  a  question. 

"Does  anybody  want  to  oppose?" 

The  manhood  received  this  much  as  it  was  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  the  courteous  invitation  to  try  a 
fall  with  the  wrestler  at  the  local  fair. 

The  meeting  was  melting  away  at  its  edges.    The 

83 


The  Yellow  Van 

children,  losing  their  respect  for  the  invader,  began 
to  eye  the  supports  of  his  platform  with  manifest 
intent.  Mr.  Kisbye  again  tapped  his  leg,  this  time 
as  though  he  loved  it. 

"You  rascal,"  he  cried,  pointing  a  threatening 
whip  at  the  lecturer,  "I  warn  you,  and  I  warn  all 
your  dupes,  that  if  you  do  a  single  illegal  act,  or 
say  a  single  illegal  word,  you  '11  hear  of  it.  Peas- 
cod,  keep  an  eye  on  that  man.  As  for  you,  you 
whelp,"  turning  to  George,  "never  let  me  see  your 
face  again  on  my  place!" 

Perfect  silence  fell  once  more  on  the  meeting,  and 
every  footfall  told  as  a  threat  as  the  speaker  rode 
away. 

"There,  George,"  wailed  the  poor  village  beauty, 
"you  've  done  it  now!  And  what  '11  they  say  at  the 
castle  if  they  know  I  was  in  this  night's  work?" 

The  young  fellow  looked  uncommonly  foolish. 
"My  blood  was  on  fire,"  he  said. 

"And  I  've  caught  a  chill,"  cried  the  girl,  trying 
to  frown  in  pettish  displeasure,  and  then  bursting 
into  tears  and  running  away. 

It  was  again  one  of  those  moments,  like  that 
which  had  just  passed,  when  everything  seemed  to 
hang  on  the  pure  hazard  of  a  lead.  The  lecturer 
naturally  wished  to  rally  his  meeting.  He  had  his 
short  way  with  the  landed  interest  to  propose  in  the 
form  of  a  resolution.  He  had  also  to  thank  his 
chairman  in  the  same  manner.  But  Mr.  Kisbye  had 
hardly  passed  out  of  sight  and  hearing  when  an- 
other clatter  of  hoofs  came,  from  the  distance  this 

84 


The  Yellow  Van 

time,  as  though  he  had  only  gone  to  fetch  up  his  re- 
serves, and  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  two  of  the 
castle  drags  in  view. 

It  was  a  fragment  of  the  ducal  party— house  and 
other— hurrying  back  to  dress  for  dinner  after  a 
day's  shooting;  in  other  words,  the  feudal  system 
in  full  trot  for  the  scene  of  the  meeting.  The  awe- 
struck villagers  could  distinguish  the  Liddicots, 
Beuceys,  Lavertons,  Mohants,  Neves,  and  Incledons 
from  the  neighboring  strongholds  of  social  power, 
as  they  sped  by,  chatting  in  music  on  the  day's 
sport.  It  was  the  leadership  of  the  land  in  a  nut- 
shell— Parliament,  office,  military  command,  satra- 
pies, wealth,  worship,  and  power  in  some  of  their 
most  imposing  forms.  Herbert  Peascod  stood  at 
the  salute,  and  most  of  the  others  involuntarily  fol- 
lowed his  example  in  their  own  way.  The  system 
was  not  unobservant  of  the  meeting  and  of  the  van, 
and  its  laughter,  which  was  not  much  more  than  a 
smile  made  audible,  betokened  a  turn  in  the  current 
of  thoughts  that  were  still  pleasant  from  first  to 
last.  The  lecturer,  who  had  gazed  with  the  rest, 
turned  to  rally  his  meeting,  but  found  that  the  vil- 
lage green  was  all  his  own. 


IX 


OW,  then,  Amy,  off  we  go!    Two 
mile  to  bedtime." 

The  lecturer  entered  the  van  on 
tiptoe,    and   gazed   tenderly   at   a 
bundle  of  bedding  securely  tied  to 
a  shelf.    It  contained  his  only  child. 
''Hasn't  she  gone  off  nicely?"  said  the  wife,  ad- 
justing the  clothes.     "I  was  afraid  when  the  man 
on  horseback  began  to  shout.    Who  was  he?" 

"Oh,  only  one  of  the  heathen.  She  '11  get  used 
to  them  soon.  He  cut  us  out  of  our  vote,  though, 
and  out  of  our  sale  of  literature.  If  we  could  have 
postponed  him  for  five  minutes  we  should  have  been 
eighteenpence  to  the  good." 

He  put  the  horse  in,  while  his  wife  made  all  tight 
for  the  jolting  journey  before  them  by  extinguish- 
ing the  lamp  and  wedging  it  and  the  crockery  into 
a  padded  box. 

"Hold  tight,  Amy!   Gee  up,  Tom!" 
The  vehicle  started  with  a  creak,  and  the  wife 
sat  still  in  the  darkness,  with  one  hand  on  the  pre- 
cious bundle,  and  the  other  on  a  hat-peg. 

Agitators  are  supposed  to  revel  on  the  fat  of  the 
land,  but  in  truth  the  public  cause  has  only  too 
little  of  this  delicacy  to  spare  for  its  rank  and  file. 

86 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  Tommys  of  the  social  war  have  as  hard  a  lot  as 
those  who  carry  a  musket  in  the  other  one ;  and  they 
are  to  be  counted  happy  if  the  balance  of  the  day's 
operations  leaves  them  with  a  whole  skin  and  a  ra- 
tion. They  have  their  liberty,  though,  or  what  they 
take  for  such,  which  is  just  as  good.  The  people  on 
the  road  grow  fewer  and  fewer,  for  civilization 
means  a  postal  address.  The  wandering  Kirghiz, 
with  his  tent  of  felt  and  his  old  freedom  of  the 
Asian  plains,  is  now  circumscribed  by  law  and 
order;  and  his  pitch, cand  count  of  cattle,  have  be- 
come items  of  entry  in  the  note-book  of  a  Muscovite 
policeman.  The  immigrant-wagon  has  made  way 
for  the  immigrant-train.  Soon  the  last  king  of  the 
gipsies,  or  perhaps  the  last  commoner,  for  the  mon- 
archs  of  the  tribe  generally  lead  the  way  into  shop- 
keeping,  will  boil  his  last  kettle  by  his  last  roadside, 
and  sink  to  obscurity  in  a  slum.  Meanwhile  the  van 
is  the  camel  of  our  deserts  of  mansuetude,  and  a 
home  of  a  kind  for  those  prophets  of  struggling 
causes  who  escape  stoning  only  by  keeping  per- 
petually on  the  go. 

The  opening  of  a  gate,  and  a  new  variety  of  jolt 
that  marked  the  change  from  macadam  to  grass, 
showed  that  they  had  reached  their  journey's  end. 

Old  Spurr,  the  chairman  of  the  meeting,  was  in 
waiting  with  his  lantern;  and  his  wild  figure,  in 
the  shirt-sleeves  which  formed  the  full  dress  of  his 
everlasting  labor,  was  revealed  in  rugged  effects 
of  light  and  shade  as  he  guided  them  to  their  place 
for  the  night. 

87 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Come  to  back  o'  t'  'ouse;  ye  '11  be  more  out  of 
the  way  loike  in  t'  other  field.  He  '11  be  up  early, 
and  sniffin'  about." 

"Who?" 

"Squoire  Kisbye." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  it?" 

"Well,  if  you  gets  off  in  good  time  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  dussay  you  '11  never  know.  Here,  tek  this," 
he  added  with  a  shamefaced  air,  laying  a  small 
basket  on  the  van.  "The  wife  sent  ye  a  quart  o' 
milk  and  a  few  eggs.  Need  n/t  say  nothin '  about  it, 
if  anybody  asks.  Ye  're  supposed  to  pay  for  every- 
thing here." 

Amy  went  in  to  thank  her  hostess  and  to  com- 
plete her  modest  shopping  for  the  day.  Meanwhile 
the  horse  was  taken  out  of  the  shafts  and  turned 
loose  in  the  field,  where,  late  as  it  was,  he  woke  the 
echoes  with  a  thunderous  gallop  which  signalized 
his  sense  of  freedom.  When  the  wife  returned,  the 
old  man  cried  a  cheery  good  night,  and  the  wander- 
ers were  left  alone. 

One  charm  of  van  life  lies  in  its  frequent  surprises. 
It  seems  to  promise  nothing,  while  it  offers  every- 
thing by  turns.  This  poor  little  inclosure  of  nine 
feet  by  seven  was,  at  a  pinch,  kitchen,  dining-room, 
nursery,  and  even  library  and  drawing-room, 
though,  as  to  the  last,  perhaps  it  was  rather  the 
parlor  sitting-room  of  lodgings  at  the  seaside.  It 
was  also  a  bedroom ;  and,  for  purposes  of  argument, 
if  not  of  use,  it  had  even  a  sort  of  upper  floor,  in 
fact  garrets,  at  a  pinch. 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  housewife  now  drew  forth  the  kerosene-lamp 
and  the  tiny  cooking-stove,  neither  of  which  could 
be  lighted  with  safety  until  the  vehicle  was  at  rest. 
The  next  thing  was  to  draw  the  curtains  and  make 
all  snug.  It  was  not  to  be  done  in  a  moment. 
There  was  a  window  in  each  of  the  four  sides,  and 
each  window  had  a  pair  of  muslin  curtains  for  the 
daytime,  and  of  serge  for  the  night.  A  skylight  was 
left  unveiled,  on  the  consideration  that  the  stars 
were  not  to  be  suspected  of  impertinent  curiosity. 
The  windows  were  but  eighteen  inches  square,  and 
their  curtains  being  cut  to  measure,  they  had  a 
ridiculous  air  of  being  in  short  clothes. 

The  larder  stood  confessed  in  an  open  cupboard, 
with  crockery  and  stores  of  eatables  above,  and  with 
pots  and  pans  below;  and  the  small  stove  was  soon 
in  full  blaze,  in  so  far  as  the  phrase  may  be  used 
in  regard  to  a  volume  of  combustion  positively  be- 
neath the  notice  of  science.  The  peculiarity  of 
this  stove  was  that  it  would  cook  only  one  thing  at 
a  time,  and  even  that  but  a  dish  for  a  table  of 
Lilliput;  so,  just  as  the  chops  were  beginning  to 
frizzle,  the  potatoes  were  getting  cold.  The  wit  of 
man,  or  at  any  rate  of  that  better  half  of  him  prin- 
cipally concerned,  had  not  yet  discovered  how  to 
serve  both  dishes  together  hot  and  hot.  This  prob- 
lem, however,  had  the  touching  insistence  of  an  un- 
realized ideal;  and  the  better  half  was  still  busy 
over  it  with  bent  brows,  while  the  other  went  to  tidy 
up  the  library.  This  part  of  their  almost  too  com- 
modious dwelling  consisted  of  a  set  of  pigeonholes, 

89 


The  Yellow  Van 

with  shelves  sloping  downward  to  prevent  the 
escape  of  their  contents  to  the  floor.  Much  of  the 
literature  of  pamphlet  used  in  the  propaganda  was 
stored  here— tract  "The  Curse  of  Landlordism,"  a 
great  favorite,  with  "The  Crux  of  the  Land  Ques- 
tion," "Better  Homes  for  the  Workers,"  "Land 
Nationalization— Why  Do  We  Want  It?"  and 
"The  Landless  Man."  Besides  these— such  is  the 
weakness  of  our  nature — were  a  common  tobacco- 
pipe  and  as  common  a  pouch,  with  a  cigar-box, 
which,  however,  was  redeemed  to  finer  uses  as  a 
receptacle  for  pen  and  ink.  These  things,  as  the 
van  moved,  were  perpetually  charging  forward  to 
the  apertures,  looking  over  the  dizzy  precipice  be- 
low, and  then  rolling  back  baffled  into  the  gloom  of 
their  caves.  The  library,  as  beseemed  an  institution 
devoted  to  the  service  of  the  mind,  had  stretched 
beyond  these  narrow  limits,  and  its  annex  was 
found  at  the  end  of  the  vehicle,  on  the  same  shelf 
as  the  bed  for  the  child.  The  nursery  seemed  rather 
dangerously  near  the  garret  window,  but  as  the  lat- 
ter remained  intact,  the  infant  Amy  was  probably 
one  of  those  wingless  angels  that  do  not  kick  in  their 
sleep.  In  a  general  way  she  had  certainly  come  to 
terms  with  her  environment.  Under  her  mother's 
brooding  gaze,  she  slept  as  soundly  with  the  van  in 
motion  as  with  the  oratory.  Exceptions  excepted, 
the  same  smile  of  the  better  world  which  she  had 
just  left  was  on  her  face,  whether  the  house  rumbled 
over  fresh  cobbles,  or  some  town  meeting  carried  a 
resolution  by  the  acclamation  of  a  roar. 

90 


The  Yellow  Van 

"I  '11  lay  the  supper-things  now,  old  girl,  if  you 
like." 

"Please." 

This  operation  involved  the  conversion  of  the 
middle  part  of  the  van  into  a  dining-room,  by  un- 
folding a  couple  of  deck-stools,  and  drawing  out  a 
table  trained  to  subdue  itself  to  the  most  demure 
insignificance  by  the  management  of  its  flaps. 

The  chops  at  least  were  hot;  and,  with  a  little 
good  will,  it  was  easy  to  treat  the  potatoes  as  an  ice. 
They  ate  their  meal  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
regular  breathing  of  the  child,  visible  rather  than 
audible,  near  as  they  were  to  its  cot. 

Their  puzzle-box  was  now  ready  for  one  change 
more.  It  became  a  bedroom  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  emptying  a  linen-chest,  using  its  lid  and  a  sup- 
plementary flap  with  iron  supports  for  the  frame 
of  the  couch,  and  drawing  a  pair  of  curtains  to  make 
all  snug  within. 

The  lecturer  went  out  to  smoke  his  pipe,  and  finally 
turned  in,  after  the  horse  had  rubbed  good  night  on 
his  shoulder  and  received  a  pat  in  return.  Soon  there 
was  perfect  quiet  in  the  van,  though  not  exactly 
perfect  peace.  The  cows  in  the  field,  with  the  curi- 
osity which  is  said  to  be  the  bane  of  their  sex,  could 
not  refrain  from  approaching  the  vehicle  for  pur- 
poses of  exploration.  Their  deep  breathing  on  the 
very  walls  of  the  tenement  would  have  been  of 
ghostly  suggestion  at  this  hour,  had  any  one  within 
been  wakeful  enough  to  hear  it.  But  it  passed  un- 
noticed, with  a  direful  rattle  of  their  horns  when 

91 


The  Yellow  Van 

these  were  caught  in  momentary  entanglement  with 
the  wheels.  There  was  indeed  something  to  hear 
the  livelong  night,  as  there  always  is  in  the  open 
fields.  Nature  seems  to  wake  when  we  sleep,  and 
as  her  stars  are  at  least  more  visibly  busy,  so  her 
creeping  and  even  some  of  her  flying  things  are 
more  audibly  so  at  night.  It  is  their  fear  of  man 
perhaps,  at  any  rate  on  the  part  of  the  crawling 
under-world,  that  keeps  the  more  timorous  creatures 
astir  at  unreasonable  hours;  and  earth,  that  dis- 
dains him,  is  notoriously  given  to  all  sorts  of  inop- 
portune movements. 

Next  morning  the  yellow  van  had  resumed  its 
travels  through  broad  England  before  the  moon- 
face  of  Constable  Peascod  appeared  at  the  gate  of 
the  paddock.  The  child,  sitting  up  in  bed,  was 
blowing  a  penny  trumpet  as  they  passed  under  the 
walls  of  Allonby.  Nothing  happened  to  the  walls. 


92 


EOEGE  followed  Rose  from  the 
meeting,  and  contrived  to  cut  her 
off  from  her  mother's  cottage  by 
taking  a  path  which  involved  a 
trespass  on  private  grounds.  He 
was  just  in  time.  The  road  was 
hilly,  and  she  was  on  the  last  rise  when  she  found 
him  before  her.  A  few  steps  more  would  have 
brought  her  in  sight  of  the  cottage,  and,  what  is 
more,  the  cottage  in  sight  of  her.  Even  as  it  was, 
the  moon  was  looking  on. 

She  was  still  in  high  displeasure,  and  was  for 
passing  him  without  a  word.  His  passionate  admi- 
ration had  made  a  woman  of  her,  with  all  a  woman's 
claims.  She  had  grown  to  it  in  a  night  and  a  day, 
from  the  wild  girlhood  of  her  tousled  hair  and  her 
rough  work  at  home  and  farm — a  spiritual  condi- 
tion till  now  tempered  only  by  the  Sunday-school. 
The  tremendous  discovery  that  she  was  part  of  the 
beauty  of  the  world  had  come  to  her  quite  suddenly, 
while  yet  she  thought  herself  but  a  part  of  its 
strength  and  coarser  uses.  All  her  upbringing  had 
fostered  this  depressing  illusion.  She  had  read  no- 
thing, seen  nothing  but  the  annual  school  treat  in 
the  castle  grounds.  The  county  town  was  a  far 

93 


The  Yellow  Van 

country  to  her ;  great  London,  another  world.  Then 
had  come  this  fierce  playmate  of  old  to  touch  her 
into  a  new  and  wholly  bewitching  sense  of  person- 
ality with  his  rude  deference  and  his  honeyed 
tongue.  Something  in  her  had  suddenly  tamed 
him  into  gentleness  and  the  wish  to  please,  where 
before  there  had  been  only  the  rude  give-and-take 
of  the  playground.  And  now,  after  all  this,  after 
the  almost  mystical  change,  he  could  still  find 
time  to  listen  to  a  mere  spouter  on  the  tail-board  of 
a  van.  To  set  his  blood  on  fire  was  surely  her  glo- 
rious privilege;  and  the  very  essence  of  the  joy  it 
gave  was  in  exclusive  rights.  The  absurdity  of  the 
position  that  all  this  involved  jealousy  of  a  public 
movement  did  not  wholly  escape  her,  but  it  only 
made  the  matter  worse.  Her  rival  was  simply  a 
wretched  handbill,  not  even  any  accredited  obstacle 
in  flesh  and  blood.  Added  to  this  was  the  humilia- 
tion of  the  burst  of  tears  which  had  betrayed  so 
much.  Could  she  ever  forgive  herself— or  him? 

"Rose!" 

"Keep  your  own  side  o'  the  road  now.  You  no 
business  this  side ;  you  know  it  as  well  's  me. ' ' 

This  observation,  which  seems  more  properly  to 
belong  to  an  altercation  of  carters,  was  still  very 
much  to  the  purpose.  It  was  a  maxim  of  the  com- 
mon law  of  Slocum,  in  matters  social,  that  young 
people  of  opposite  sexes  who  wished  to  avoid  scan- 
dal should  keep  opposite  sides  of  the  road.  Even 
lovers  respected  it.  For  all  who  were  not  in  that 
relationship  it  was  obligatory.  To  ignore  it  was 

94 


The  Yellow  Van 

to  be  "talked  about."  The  roads  were  narrow,— 
perhaps  a  considerate  highway  board  had  in  this 
way  tempered  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,— but, 
such  as  they  were,  travelers  of  this  critical  standing 
were  expected  to  keep  their  left  and  right,  though 
they  might  be  going  the  same  way.  It  implied  no 
very  flattering  estimate  of  peasant  manners,  per- 
haps, but  that  was  as  it  might  be.  The  local  Pyra- 
mus  and  Thisbe,  who  respected  themselves  and  the 
code,  had  always  between  them  this  wall  of  atmo- 
sphere—generally a  wall  of  darkness  too,  through 
which  their  confidences  were  as  those  of  the  wan- 
dering voice.  If  in  the  present  instance  the  barrier 
of  obscurity  was  wanting,  that  was  the  fault  of  the 
moon. 

It  was  a  beautiful  scene.  The  plantations  on  each 
side  rose  and  fell  with  the  road;  and  their  timber- 
crowned  heights  and  masses  of  bracken  in  the  hol- 
lows dear  to  the  birds  who  were  so  soon  to  die  were 
full  of  mystery.  It  was  anybody's  landscape  seen 
in  this  light,  though  it  lay  in  the  heart  of  ordered 
England,  with  all  its  measurements  recorded  in  a 
hundred  deeds  of  settlement  or  parish  rolls.  A  wild 
man  of  the  woods  might  have  seen  something  to  re- 
mind him  of  home  in  its  solid  swaths  of  impenetra- 
ble shade,  with  here  and  there  a  tremulous  speck  of 
silver  in  the  open  as  the  brook  caught  a  ray  from 
above.  And,  after  all,  in  spite  of  the  records,  it 
was  perhaps  as  wild  and  unspoiled  as  nature  had 
left  it.  The  road,  with  its  fence  and  its  hedge,  was 
about  the  only  thing  of  human  handiwork.  Wild 

95 


The  Yellow  Van 

Celtic  persons  had  probably  sought  vale  and  slope 
on  this  very  business  now  in  hand.  The  Roman  sol- 
dier at  his  post  hard  by  may  have  cursed  the  luck 
that  kept  him  a  prisoner  in  this  hole  of  an  island 
while  the  nut-brown  girl  in  the  Campagna  was  con- 
soling herself  with  the  other  man. 

"Just  you  keep  your  own  side!" 

"Not  me;  I  want  to  see  you  near.  Oh,  Rose, 
you  're  the  prettiest  girl  in  all  this  world." 

"T  ain't  likely." 

It  was  her  way  of  saying  that  flatteries  would  not 
serve.  We  must  excuse  a  certain  want  of  art  on 
both  sides.  Thus  they  say  sweet  things,  and  thus 
they  reject  them,  in  the  real  Arcadia.  The  proud 
setting  of  earth  and  sky  seems  to  touch  it  into 
beauty  in  spite  of  all. 

"Well,  I  never  used  to  think  so,  sure,"  said  the 
swain.  "It  seemed  to  come  to  me,  loike,  all  of  a 
sudden.  Lord,  I  never  thowt  nothin'  of  ye,  Rose, 
when  we  used  to  go  to  school." 

"An*  I  never  thought  nothin'  o'  you  no  time: 
that  's  all  the  difference." 

"What  a  little  tomboy  you  was!  D'ye  remember 
how  I  pulled  your  'air,  one  day,  when  you  collared 
my  hoop  ?  You  got  it  done  so  nice  now. ' ' 

"You  are  a  silly  sheep,  no  mistake— baa,  baa!" 

"I  could  chop  off  my  'and  for  it  now,  I  could. 
I  can't  tell  what  make  me  feel  so.  Maybe  it  's  the 
long  frocks." 

"Gone  foolish  over  a  print  gownd!  I  should  be 
'shamed  to  say  so,  if  I  was  a  young  man." 


The  Yellow  Van 

"No,  it  ain't  that,  either.  It  's  a  somethin'-like 
in  your  eyes,  an'  in  the  way  you  holds  yourself.  I 
often  lays  awake  o'  nights  wonderin'  what  it  is. 
The  fellers  'u  'd  laugh  at  me  about  it,  if  they  was  n  't 
afraid  o'  gettin'  punched.  Oh,  Eose,  you  are  a 
beauty,  no  mistake.  I  could  say  my  prayers  to  ye. ' ' 

"That  's  wicked.  People  ha'  been  struck  dead 
in  the  Bible  for  less." 

"It  can't  be.  I  never  felt  so  good  since  I  was 
a  little  kid.  No  gammon,  Rose.  I  think  you  're 
right  about  the  sheep,  though,  all  the  same.  I  feel 
silly-like ;  an '  then,  along  wi '  that,  I  feel  strong.  I 
could  punch  anything,  I  could,  if  you  was  lookin' 
on.  I  seem  to  be  walkin'  about  on  buttercups. 
Don't  you  go  an'  tell  nobody,  to  make  a  laughin'- 
stock  o'  me,  or  I  '11  kill  'em.  Oh,  it  's  the  funniest 
feelin'  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Eose,  you  must  have 
me:  I  '11  die  if  you  don't." 

What  it  lacked  in  fascination  was  made  up  by 
the  kindly  mother  watching  over  all — the  stars  quite 
intent  upon  the  scene  in  spite  of  their  having  so 
much  to  do  elsewhere,  the  music  of  the  nether-world 
in  the  faint  stirrings  of  leaf  and  flower  in  the  breeze 
and  the  fainter  of  creeping  things,  just  as  much  in- 
terested, in  their  way,  as  their  betters  ab'ove. 

The  night  was  in  their  souls;  but  one  of  them, 
at  least,  hardly  knew  it.  The  peasant  misses  a 
good  deal  in  using  his  skies  only  as  a  weather  sign. 
His  mate  is  often  better  advised. 

"It  's  the  fine  evenin'  make  you  feel  so,"  said 
the  girl,  as  though  she  were  commiserating  a  sudden 

97 


The  Yellow  Van 

cold.  She  strove  for  sarcasm,  but  achieved  only 
tenderness  and  pity  in  spite  of  herself.  "Daytime 
you  don 't  care  for  me. ' ' 

"Why?"  he  asked  fiercely,  and  crossing  over  to 
his  own  side. 

"Takin'  up  with  a  common  showman.  Ain't 
that  enough?  Why,  he  '11  be  gone  to-morrer,  miles 
away;  an'  then  where  '11  you  be?  He  's  got  no 
work  to  give  away." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.  I  '11  find  work  for 
myself. ' ' 

"What  work?  George,  George!  What  can  such 
as  us  do  when  we  've  offended  the  big  folks?" 

"I '11  go  on  the  road." 

"Go  on  the  road!"  she  echoed  faintly. 

"Yes;  there  's  more  things  to  peddle  than  little 
tracts  about  the  land — pots  and  pans  and  kettles, 
knives  and  forks,  needles  and  thread,  candles  and 
calico,  tea  and  sugar.  I  '11  be  a  general  shop  on 
wheels— that  's  what  I  '11  be.  I  've  thought  over  it 
dozen  o'  times  when  I  been  thinkin'  of  you. 
There  's  a  fortune  in  it.  Why,  there  ain't  no  place 
nearer  than  Randsford,  if  you  want  a  gridiron! 
I  '11  take  the  villages  for  twenty  mile  round  Allon- 
by.  It  's  a  fortune,  sure !  I  can  do  anything  in  all 
the  world  if  you  '11  only  put  your  'and  in  mine." 

No  knight  of  old  could  have  been  prouder  on  his 
quest  of  giant  or  dragon  or  holy  cup;  no  man  of 
our  day  in  his  boast  of  a  high  ambition  in  church 
or  state.  All  's  relative:  for  the  scale  of  Slocum 
Parva,  George  Herion  was  a  hero  of  romance. 

98 


The  Yellow  Van 

It  was  entrancing  in  its  perspective  of  high  des- 
tinies, but  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  believe  in 
it  too  soon.  And,  besides,  she  felt  real  alarms. 
Public  opinion— would  the  gossips  approve  and 
support?  Her  mother? 

"You  couldn't  never  do  it,  George.  How  are 
you  goin'  to  get  your  license?  Oh,  it  is  a  big  world 
to  fight  in  that  way,  an'  no  mistake." 

"I  '11  do  it,  no  fear,  if  you  '11  say  yes." 

"George,  I  'm  frightened  for  ye— only  for  that. 
Can't  you  wait?" 

"Wait!  What  for— to  see  if  Mr.  Kisbye  '11  take 
me  back  again?" 

"Never  that,  George,  with  my  will.  And  you 
know  it." 

"Well,  then,  wait  for  what?  Wait  or  starve? 
Starve  an'  p'r'aps  lose  you!  No;  I  '11  have  your 
promise  now,  or  I  '11  go  many  a  long  mile  afore  I 
see  you  again— if  ever  I  do." 

She  paled,  even  in  the  moonlight.  "Many  a  long 
mile." 

"Rose,  mark  my  words;  there's  goin'  to  be 
fightin'  in  that  there  place  they  call  Africa.  You 
remember;  we  've  sung  it  out  on  the  maps  many  a 
time.  There  '11  be  fightin'  to  see  which  is  best 
man,  the  Queen  or  old  Krujer.  That  's  where  I  '11 
go,  and  good-by  to  your  sojer-boy!" 

It  was  decisive.  Swiftly  came  over  her  the  horror 
of  the  thought  that  her  unkindness  might  drive  him 
to  his  death ;  and,  death  or  not,  that,  with  him  gone, 
life  would  fall  into  abysses  of  spiritual  solitude  and 

99 


The  Yellow  Van 

spiritual  insignificance  from  which  she  could  never 
pluck  it  out.  There  could  be  no  life  now  without 
him  to  cleave  to,  him  to  cleave  to  her. 

She  was  on  his  side  of  the  road  now,  and  the  vil- 
lage Grundy  missed  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.  She 
crossed  to  where  he  stood  facing  her,  on  the  little 
bridge  that  spanned  the  gully,  and  threw  herself 
sobbing  on  his  Breast.  Then,  suddenly  raising  her 
head,  she  returned  his  kiss  of  passion,  and  ran  home 
without  another  word. 

He  did  not  try  to  follow  her.  He  sat  down  on  the 
stone  parapet,  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  saw  that  it  was  something  more 
than  a  barometer.  His  whole  soul  was  in  that 
tumult  of  the  sense  of  being  which  we  reach  in  its 
fullness  but  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  Nature  is 
chary  of  the  experience,  for  it  is  a  revelation  of  her 
innermost  secret.  The  great  experiences  will  alone 
do  it— great  music,  great  love.  And  with  this  came  a 
sense  of  the  inadequacy  of  the  thing  revealed.  It  was 
not  great  enough  for  his  superlative  mood— rich 
enough,  full  enough.  If  he  had  known  how,  he  could 
have  cried  out  with  the  lover  in  the  German  song : 

"Earth,  hast  thou  no  fairer  flowers 

Than  these  to  show? 
Sky,  hast  thou  no  orbs  of  fire 

That  brighter  glow? 
My  heart  's  so  full  of  happiness, 

It  must,  it  will,  o'erflow!" 

So  here  we  have  a  plowboy— quite  a  common 
plowboy— touched  with  gentleness,  poetry,  religion, 

100 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  all  because  a  dairymaid,  the  right  dairymaid, 
though  a  common  one  still,  has  given  him  a  kiss. 
Eeally,  really,  it  is  almost  enough  to  make  one  be- 
lieve that  your  one  valid  introduction  to  the  whole 
circle  of  arts  and  sciences  is  immortal  love. 


101 


XI 


T  was  Augusta's  first  house-party 
at  Allonby— a  great  trial.  She 
was  responsible  as  hostess,  and  a 
mere  onlooker,  as  one  new  to  the 
whole  thing.  If  her  first  country 
season  failed,  she  failed  with  it. 
To  make  it  succeed,  she  had  to  keep  hundreds  of 
persons  amused,  in  relays  counted  by  the  score,  for 
weeks  at  a  stretch.  A  great  gathering  of  this  kind 
is,  no  doubt,  Liberty  Hall,  but  it  must  still  offer 
only  a  freedom  of  choice  in  enchantments.  And 
for  these  the  host  and  hostess  are  responsible,  say 
what  you  will.  Whatever  happens,  their  guests  are 
never  to  know  a  moment  of  weariness,  except  by 
their  own  default.  Think  of  the  responsibilities  of 
it,  as  a  sort  of  variety-show  in  excelsis,  with  light- 
ning changes  of  program,  and  something  to  suit 
everybody's  taste. 

And  all  tastes  were  there:  of  statesman,  soldier, 
sportsman,  artist,  light  of  literature,  and  mere  man 
or  woman  of  the  world— some  of  them  doubling 
their  parts  with  the  sport.  They  came  down  in 
sets,  for  three  or  five  days,  usually  the  former;  and 
for  each  in  his  turn  Allonby  was  to  be  a  realized 
fairy-tale.  Augusta  had  never  dreamed  of  the  like 

102 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  it,  for  the  descriptions  accessible  to  her  had 
failed  altogether  in  their  rendering  of  its  atmo- 
spheric effects.  What  she  wanted  to  do  was  stand 
in  the  corner  and  look  on,  in  speechless  curiosity, 
at  the  best  of  England,  and  even  of  the  rest  of  the 
world,  in  its  best  moment  of  social  expansion. 
What  she  had  to  do  was  take  her  place  as  leader  of 
the  revels,  and  give  the  note.  The  task  might  have 
been  beyond  her  powers  but  for  precious  aid.  Aunt 
Emily  was  there,  as  duenna,  for  counsel  in  the 
higher  proprieties;  and,  for  the  others,  there  were 
any  number  of  the  ministers  of  household  state  who 
held  office  under  the  duke.  Happily,  both  ministers 
and  their  masters  are  permitted  to  qualify  by  a 
sort  of  impartial  ignorance  of  the  work  of  depart- 
ments. Allonby  could  only  be  governed  like  an 
empire,  it  was  such  a  big  affair.  For  her  first  sea- 
son, at  any  rate,  our  duchess,  nee  Augusta  Gooding, 
was  content  to  do  as  she  was  told,  and  she  was  as 
submissive  to  her  bureaucracy  as  a  sultan  or  a 
czar. 

The  style  of  it,  the  luxury,  the  wealth,  the  very 
extravagance — well,  no  words  will  serve!  As  in 
London  the  triumph  of  entertaining  is  to  make  ex- 
tremes meet  by  bringing  the  fruits  of  summer  to 
the  winter  board,  so  here  you  have  to  overcome  the 
natural  quiet  of  a  scene  formed  for  introspection 
and  repose  by  the  importation  of  all  the  bustle  of 
town.  Out  of  its  season,  Allonby  was  as  magnifi- 
cently dull  as  a  peak  in  the  Andes.  It  was  a  peak 
itself,  for  that  matter,  but  a  host  of  the  most  bril- 

103 


The  Yellow  Van 

liant  figures  were  to  dance  on  it  in  the  most  glitter- 
ing panoply  of  revel,  with  nothing  to  put  them 
out  of  countenance  but  the  occasional  solemnity  of 
the  sky.  What  a  business— to  get  the  right  people, 
and  to  put  them  in  the  way  of  keeping  each  other 
amused!  As  Augusta  sped  or  failed  in  this  task,  so 
might  the  family  influence  wax  or  wane  in  the 
remotest  parts  of  the  earth.  For  every  parting 
guest  took  his  report  to  the  next  house  of  call  on 
his  ceaseless  round  of  pleasure,  until  it  became  smok- 
ing-room talk  in  Ultima  Thule,  and  giant  headline 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

It  was  an  unusually  large  party  this  year  because 
of  the  marriage.  The  fame  of  the  duke's  strange 
adventure  in  love  had  gone  forth,  and  every  one 
wanted  to  see  his  conqueror.  The  tiny  station  could 
hardly  cope  with  the  traffic,  fortified  as  the  manager 
was  by  the  assistance  of  an  emergency  gang.  At 
night,  especially,  it  suggested  the  arrival  of  distin- 
guished company  in  Hades,  with  its  many  cries  in- 
dicative of  souls  in  travail,  and  strange  flashings  of 
light  in  the  gloom.  For  every  newcomer  had  to  be 
supplied  with  carriage  accommodation  according  to 
his  needs,  even  if  these  went  no  higher  than  the 
station  fly ;  and  many,  as  an  additional  courtesy  due 
to  sex  or  rank,  exacted  a  ducal  carriage,  with  a 
brake  for  the  piles  of  luggage  that  strewed  the  plat- 
form. The  luggage  was  distracting.  The  men's 
was  bad  enough  in  its  litter  of  the  gear  of  sport. 
The  women's— well,  it  is  only  to  be  imagined  in  its 
lavish  provision  for  three  or  four  complete  toilets 

104 


The  Yellow  Van 

a  day,  and  no  day  like  the  last.  And  with  many  of 
them  came  their  body-servants:  the  English  valets; 
the  French  maids  watching  over  huge  sarcophagi  of 
basket-trunks,  or  grasping  headless  "shapes"  in 
palls  of  brown  holland  which  seemed  to  have  been 
denied  a  portion  of  their  funeral  rites.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  maids  were  more  in  evidence,  as  they 
clubbed  their  way  through  the  press  with  jewel- 
cases  and  hardly  less  precious  dressing-bags  which 
they  kept  in  their  own  charge.  The  servants,  of 
course,  had  to  be  lodged  as  well  as  their  betters; 
and  their  life  in  the  great  cavernous  halls  below 
stairs  was  only  less  wondrous  in  character  and  va- 
riety than  the  life  above.  The  others  seemed  to 
claim  every  nook  of  the  vast  superstructure  for  the 
needs  of  their  state  in  bedrooms,  dressing-rooms, 
and  even  sitting-rooms  for  the  married  pairs. 

The  stately  and  elaborate  routine  of  it  begins 
from  the  moment  they  enter  the  castle  gates.  To- 
morrow most  of  the  men  go  after  partridges,  and 
most  of  the  women  after  the  devices  of  their  own 
hearts.  The  pheasant  remains  sacred  and  inviolate 
till  the  first  of  the  next  month.  It  is  still  being 
coddled  for  the  gun  in  its  preserves  of  rich 
bracken— watched  against  poachers  for  the  early 
market  by  men  who  lie  out  all  night;  fed,  almost 
as  with  a  spoon,  with  huge  smoking  messes  of  In- 
dian corn  which  the  keepers  carry  to  its  haunts, 
whistling  a  call  to  dinner  as  they  go.  The  shooting 
people  are  early  afoot,  and  they  breakfast  by  them- 
selves. The  regular  meal  is  later,  when  the  ladies 

105 


The  Yellow  Van 

come  down  in  charming  morning  toilets,  and  the 
ladies'  men  are  in  attendance.  The  meal  is  wholly 
devoid  of  form.  The  guests  straggle  down  in  any 
order  of  time  that  pleases  them,  and,  as  often  as  not, 
help  themselves  from  the  sideboard  to  the  more  solid 
fare.  They  eat  as  our  ancestors  ate  in  the  German 
woods;  and  no  one  smirks,  hands  a  dish,  or  takes 
any  ceremonial  notice  of  his  neighbor.  You  are  per- 
fectly free  in  every  respect,  even  to  fast  or  feast  in 
your  own  room. 

Some  of  the  ladies  will  presently  change  to  tweeds 
to  join  the  guns,  perhaps  to  take  a  shot,  if  they  like. 
The  duchess  draws  the  line  here  in  her  duties  of 
patronage,  but  not  for  want  of  knowledge  of  the 
game.  She  can  go  as  straight  to  the  mark  on  a 
target  as  the  others  on  a  bird.  The  wild  life  of  the 
woods  has  been  about  her  from  childhood,  but  she 
has  never  drawn  trigger  on  a  living  thing.  But, 
now  and  then,  she  joins  the  shooting-parties  at  their 
luncheon  in  field  or  farm-house,  wherever  the  pro- 
gram of  the  day's  sport  may  lead.  The  meal  is 
sometimes  spread  in  one  of  the  little  rustic  lodges 
that  dot  the  domain.  It  is  Watteau  without  the  ar- 
tificiality, if  also  without  the  rather  incongruous 
grace.  The  birds  are  the  business.  Every  incident 
of  this  part  of  the  day,  new  to  Augusta's  eyes,  at- 
tests the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  sport:  the 
lordly  keepers,  rulers  of  the  hour;  the  obedient 
"guns";  the  silent  line  all  working  to  signs,  lest  a 
bird  should  hear  a  whisper  or  a  footfall  where  it 
is  presently  going  to  die  to  something  like  a  roar  of 
artillery;  the  rustic  beaters  driving  the  game  on  to 

1 06 


The  Yellow  Van 

its  fate,  and  their  hang-dog  air  as  of  creatures  who 
have  all  their  lives  been  driven  on  to  theirs  in  much 
the  same  way— all  so  manifestly  a  growth  of  law, 
custom,  class  supremacy,  and  class  pride,  maturing 
through  centuries  of  time. 

The  other  arts  of  life  must  await  their  turn  till 
the  tea-hour  unites  most  of  the  party  at  the  castle 
—perhaps  in  the  vast  hall,  for  the  greater  freedom 
of  movement  and  incidentally  the  greater  brilliancy 
of  effect.  Augusta  is  here  again,  in  another  change 
of  toilet,  and  as  a  matter  of  duty— the  only  one  in 
bonds,  because  it  is  her  part  to  see  that  the  others 
have  their  perfect  liberty.  For,  if  they  do  not  like 
any  of  these  things,  they  may  sketch  the  ruins,  bury 
themselves  in  the  library,  play  billiards,  ride,  drive, 
or  what  not,  or  even  take  a  nap.  It  is  her  part  to 
see  that  they  have  no  hindrance  in  such  pursuits, 
especially  in  the  subtlest  and  most  disagreeable 
form  of  a  too  manifest  solicitude  for  their  comfort. 
In  fact,  she  has  to  make  everything  occur  accord- 
ing to  desire  for  everybody,  without  seeming  to  have 
any  hand  in  the  matter.  The  dowager  is  invaluable 
here,  and  not  the  least  so  with  her  occasional  "My 
dear,  just  let  'em  alone."  Most  of  them  uncon- 
sciously second  her  efforts  by  their  usage  of  the 
mode  of  life,  and  by  their  knowledge  of  their  own 
minds.  For  the  burden  of  ceremony  in  England  you 
must  attend  a  tea  in  the  suburbs  with  muffins  for 
four.  At  this  reunion  it  is  soothing,  to  Augusta  at 
least,  to  find  that  women  do  enter  a  little  more  fully 
into  the  scheme  of  things.  Some  sports,  like  some 
faiths,  do  not  tend  to  give  the  sex  an  indispensable 

107 


The  Yellow  Van 

part  in  life.  Manu,  it  is  said,  was  produced  without 
female  assistance,  and  was  but  an  emanation  of  the 
austerities  of  prayer.  Live  and  let  live:  for  one 
half  of  the  world,  at  least,  it  can  never  be  his  best 
title  to  regard. 

After  tea  it  is  again  Liberty  Hall  till  the  first 
bell  sounds  for  dinner,  when  you  enter  into  com- 
munity life.  It  is  much  the  same  with  the  hours 
that  immediately  follow.  Nothing  seems  to  happen 
by  contrivance,  but  everything  occurs  at  the  right 
time — even  the  impromptu  charades.  Augusta 
knows.  The  artists  from  the  Frangais  who  have 
come  down  from  London  for  the  duologue  are  ad- 
mittedly a  matter  of  pecuniary  arrangement,  but 
they  are  received  on  a  footing  of  social  equality 
with  a  nuance  which  might  leave  all  but  themselves 
ignorant  of  the  fact.  The  thought-readers,  though 
they  seem  so  spontaneous,  are  a  put-up  job.  The 
dowager  suggested  the  man  of  letters  who  is  now 
writing  his  autograph.  Her  life  is  spent  in  little 
services  of  this  sort,  and  she  prides  herself  on  being 
able  to  "get"  anybody  in  the  world  of  notoriety 
that  the  world  of  fashion  may  at  any  moment  wish 
to  see.  All  she  asks  is  a  little  backing  from  those 
in  whose  interest  she  labors.  "Certainly  I  can  get 
him  if  you  want  him ;  but  you  must  take  the  trouble 
to  read  one  of  his  writin's.  It  makes  him  look  like 
a  fool ;  and,  if  that  does  n  't  so  much  matter,  only 
think  of  me !  It  is  so  awkward  to  have  people  starin' 
at  him,  and  talkin'  about  the  weather,  as  if  he  was 
a  mere  gun." 

1 08 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  duke  is  proud  of  his  wife's  success,  and  it  is 
unquestionable.  There  is  not  the  slightest  difficulty 
with  the  old  families.  Their  own  claims  of  birth 
are  much  more  modest  than  other  persons,  who  have 
none,  are  disposed  to  make  for  them.  And  besides, 
the  duke's  pleasure  would  be  enough,  if  Augusta's 
modesty,  good  sense,  and  self-reliance  were  not  there 
to  keep  her  armed  at  every  point.  She  always  has 
the  tone,  if  sometimes  she  may  lack  the  manner,  of 
their  august  order. 

For  all  that  it  is  hard  to  avoid  embarrassment 
when  one  of  her  own  coroneted  countrywomen  taste- 
fully invites  her  assent  to  the  proposition  that  only 
blood  tells. 

The  duke  looks  uneasy,  but  smiles,  which  is  some- 
times his  way  of  showing  that  he  is  annoyed. 

' '  Blood  ? ' '  returns  his  wife.  ' '  There  are  so  many 
varieties. ' ' 

"I  mean  the  blue,"  says  her  friend. 

"Some  of  that,"  observes  Augusta,  sweetly,  "re- 
minds one  of  the  advertisement  of  the  writing-fluid. ' ' 

"I  never  read  advertisements." 

"Blue  in  the  first  impression  only,  Hut  mere  black 
at  last." 

"I  was  speaking  of  society." 

"And  I,"  retorted  Augusta,  "was  thinking  of  the 
seventy-odd  millions  of  the  United  States." 

"I  regret  to  say  that  I  have  not  so  many 
on  my  visiting-list.  It  is  my  misfortune,  but 
it  might  be  awkward  when  it  came  to  shaking 
hands." 

109 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Once  the  Boman  women  were  horny-handed; 
and  the  world  went  pretty  well  then." 

"I  dare  say;  and  once,  no  doubt,  the  American 
woman  made  cheeses." 

"I  hope  she  makes  them  still:  it  may  be  useful 
at  a  pinch." 

"Quite  out  of  fashion,  I  assure  you." 

"More  's  the  pity.  Let  us  keep  up  our  faith  in 
American  ideas.  I  still  like  to  think  that,  as  soon 
as  we  Ve  found  out  how  to  heat  the  water  in  Boston 
harbor,  there  '11  be  afternoon  tea  for  the  universe." 

The  duke  chuckles;  and  what  can  his  wife  want 
more? 

The  people  know  each  other,— that  is  the  great 
point,— and  they  blend.  They  meet  so  often  at  this 
or  other  houses  that  they  all  seem  to  belong  to  one 
great  family.  Yet  they  are  deliciously  catholic  in 
their  tastes,  interests,  and  ways  of  life.  They  have 
a  selectness  of  habit,  training,  and  privilege  rather 
than  of  race,  and  they  very  much  answer  to  the  de- 
scription of  that  most  ancient  of  aristocracies  who 
had  great  domains,  spoke  a  separate  language,  and 
were  held  incapable  of  crime.  The  particularism 
in  the  mode  of  speech  may  go  no  further  than  slang ; 
but  there  it  is  as  a  sign  of  independence.  They  are 
a  law  unto  themselves.  Apart  from  those  of  their 
order  who  merely  make  a  dash  at  it,  and  then  run 
back  to  work,  they  form  a  class  who  live  to  purely 
recreative  ends,  and  they  are  apt  to  die  with  some- 
thing like  a  feeling  of  resentment  at  the  carelessness 
of  Providence. 

I  10 


The  Yellow  Van 

Their  life  has  been  magnificently  organized  for 
active  indolence  by  the  labor  of  ages.  They  are 
after  the  partridge  now ;  presently  they  will  be  after 
the  stag  or  the  fox-cub,  the  salmon,  or  anything  else 
to  their  mind  in  water,  earth,  or  air.  It  is  house- 
party  after  house-party,  with  London  in  between 
for  a  sort  of  snap  shot  of  a  winter  season,  or  south- 
ern Europe  or  the  Nile,  and  the  strenuous  toil  of 
pleasure  all  the  way.  They  believe  that  most  people 
—that  is  to  say,  the  mass  of  mankind  not  in  their 
set— are  but  half  alive,  and  feel  as  sorry  for  them 
as  we  all  do  for  the  babies  born  in  that  condition  in 
the  slums.  To  keep  up  the  sense  of  vitality,  they 
shrink  from  no  experience  that  offers  the  promise 
of  a  sensation. 

One  of  the  countesses  keeps  a  bonnet-shop  in 
Bond  street— by  deputy,  of  course,  but  still  without 
any  attempt  to  conceal  the  matter  from  her  own 
set.  Another  dabbles  in  socialism ;  not  that  she  be- 
lieves in  it,  for  she  believes  in  nothing  in  particular ; 
but  it  is  at  least  an  experience  and— a  pose.  And 
then  she  is  so  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  a-b-c  of  her 
heresy  that  even  the  National  Democratic  Federa- 
tion might  be  moved  to  tears.  It  is  only  baby,  and 
the  gun  is  not  charged.  A  little  raconteur  of  stand- 
ing, of  that  tattling  sex  which  physiologists  now  say 
is  the  male,  tells  stories  of  his  order  that  even  so- 
cialists might  like  to  hear.  The  rule  of  the  profes- 
sional secret  makes  it  all  safe.  An  informal  dance 
may  belong  to  the  amusements  of  this  hour,  but  as 
a  rule  the  men  are  too  dead  beat  after  their  day's 

I  I  I 


The  Yellow  Van 

work  with  the  gun  for  anything  of  that  sort.  They 
revive  for  the  smoking-room  when  the  ladies  have 
left  for  the  night,  and  there  they  swap  the  lies  of 
anecdote  until  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
"When  it  is  not  scandal  it  is  the  rigor  of  the  game 
in  sport:  pointer  or  retriever,  the  old  style  against 
the  new;  aiming  with  only  one  eye  open,  or  with 
both,  one  school  maintaining  that  nature  has  shown 
her  wonted  prodigality  in  the  supply  of  this  organ ; 
schools  of  shooting ;  have  your  guns  cut  to  measure, 
though  you  buy  your  coats  ready-made;  soft  shot, 
chilled  shot,  hard  shot;  how  best  to  lay  out  a  wood 
for  a  day's  sport;  poachers,  polecats,  pin-fires;  and 
so  on  until  the  head  fairly  spins  with  it,  if  one  is 
not  to  the  manner  born. 

On  Sunday  the  birds  have  a  day  off,  and  time  to 
count  their  missing  friends.  Their  enemies  go  to 
church,  stroll  through  the  stables,  the  kennels,  and 
even  the  picture-galleries,  if  they  can  find  time  for 
the  last  without  any  breach  of  the  divine  ordinance 
of  repose  for  the  day. 

All  this  to  make  a  poor  young  duchess  feel  that 
the  world  is  a  bigger  and  a  stranger  place  than  is 
dreamed  of  in  the  philosophy  of  the  geography 
class,  bigger  even  than  the  all  outdoors  of  her  wild- 
est conceptions.  Her  brain  throbs  with  the  sense 
of  it.  What  a  wonderful  scene!  And  what  won- 
derful things  she  is  going  to  do  in  it,  and  for  it, 
as  lady  of  Allonby !  They  marveled  as  much  at  her. 
She  had  made  no  mistakes  worth  mentioning, 
though  her  talk  beat  a  book. 

I  12 


xir 


HE  duchess  is  driving  over  to 
luncheon  at  Liddicot,  one  of  the 
moated  halls  that  still  survive  in 
this  amazing  land. 

Sir  Henry  Liddicot  at  home  is 
the  British  squire  in  his  most  rare 
and  precious  and  exquisite  survival.  For  a  full 
thousand  years  the  family  has  been  there,  not 
precisely  at  Liddicot  Manor,  of  course,  but  there 
in  ownership,  and  in  the  county  in  settlement — 
one  race  winning,  holding,  and  sitting  tight.  The 
Conquest  was  an  innovation  to  them.  They  read  of 
Norman  William,  as  one  might  say,  in  their  morning 
papers,  wondering  what  was  up  now,  and  feeling  full 
sure  it  would  not  be  very  much.  The  rumor  of  his 
ship-building  was  brought  to  them  by  runners  from 
the  south,  and  they  set  out  with  their  quota  to  join 
the  Saxon  king  in  obedience  to  royal  messages  from 
the  north.  They  were  a  most  respectable  family 
in  Alfred's  time,  and  they  had  shaken  their  heads 
over  the  extension  of  the  empire  when  a  later  king 
took  Manchester.  Dim  rumors  of  the  Mohammedan 
invasion  of  India  were  brought  by  pious  pilgrims  to 
the  ale-bench  of  their  hall  fire. 

Their  halls,  of  course,  have  changed  since  then. 
They  have  been  rebuilt  half  a  dozen  times  in  every 

8 


The  Yellow  Van 

style  of  domestic  architecture,  each  of  them— Saxon 
blockhouse,  Norman  keep,  Elizabethan  manor,  with 
Jacobean  or  Palladian  notions  to  follow,  in  turn  the 
smartest  thing  of  its  kind. 

Here  or  hereabout  have  been  the  Liddicots,  taking 
their  share  of  every  good  thing  going  in  all  that 
time.  Think  of  it  only.  It  may  be  simple  enough 
to  win  the  luck,  but  to  keep  the  luck  in  the  family 
for  a  thousand  years!  It  is  rare  even  in  this  land, 
with  an  average  peerage  which  is  but  a  mushroom 
growth.  Families  rise  and  fall  as  the  sap  of  mas- 
tery within  them  has  a  nimble  or  a  sluggish  flow. 
So  little  will  do  it— a  touch,  they  say.  The  founder 
toils;  the  founder's  son  takes  it  easy;  the  son's  son 
makes  a  fool  of  himself,  and  then,  with  the  Jews 
as  brokers,  the  many  come  into  their  own  again. 

The  Liddicots  did  it,  in  the  first  instance,  by 
their  judicious  mixture  of  the  attributes  of  tiger  and 
fox.  When  they  were  not  snatching,  they  laid  a  fin- 
ger to  the  nose— not  defiantly,  as  in  one  of  the  many 
varieties  of  that  expressive  gesture,  but  as  in  mature 
reflection  on  the  next  step.  They  made  their  sub- 
mission to  the  first  William  at  the  right  time  and 
in  the  right  way,  and  he  gave  them  grace.  They 
sided  with  the  greatest  of  the  Edwards  in  his  strug- 
gle for  domestic  mastery,  when  all  the  other  wise- 
acres of  their  part  of  the  country  were  putting 
their  money  on  the  other  horse.  They  made  an 
equally  wise  choice  with  the  last  Henry,  who  gave 
them  a  monastery  or  two  for  their  pains,  and  with 
Dutch  William.  After  that,  though  not  all  at  once, 

114 


The  Yellow  Van 

the  premonitions  of  the  long  sleep  that  overtakes  all 
of  us  at  length  came  over  them.  They  drew  slowly 
toward  the  conclusion  that  there  is  nothing  more 
to  do  but  keep  a  sort  of  perpetual  balance  with 
things  as  they  are.  The  problem  of  perpetual  rest 
is  as  trying  as  that  of  perpetual  motion,  and  it  has 
engaged  the  attention  of  whole  generations  of  the 
most  respectable  families  time  out  of  mind. 

So  they  invented  a  sort  of  philosophy  of  fatigue 
which,  in  their  present  representative,  has  reached 
its  finest  flower.  The  good  old  baronet  has  an  hon- 
est impatience  of  every  kind  of  thoroughness  of 
thought  and  action  which  makes  him  the  perfect 
Englishman  of  his  time.  His  whole  line  in  life  is 
determined  by  a  rooted  suspicion  of  first  principles. 
He  lives  by  a  glorified  rule  of  thumb,  and  moves 
from  event  to  event  with  the  pious  ejaculation  of 
"Sufficient  unto  the  day—"  He  is  incurably  sus- 
picious of  all  attempts  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  things 
in  "politics,  literature,  science,  and  art."  "Lord, 
how  the  world  is  given  to  fads ! "  is  his  cry  of  protest. 
He  shivers  at  the  thought  of  new  departures,  unless 
they  are  reasonably  old,  and  he  is  sure  that  when 
they  started  they  went  beyond  what  was  necessary. 
He  accepts  them  as  soon  as  they  are  there,  just  be- 
cause they  are  there,  for  he  is  the  very  genius  of 
submission  to  the  accomplished  fact.  But  if  he  had 
been  asked  his  sanction  in  advance,  they  would  have 
had  long  to  wait.  He  is  for  moderation  in  all  things ; 
even  moderation  "must  n't  go  too  far,  you  know" — 
the  man  of  the  unjust  milieu,  in  a  word. 

"5 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  has  elaborated  his  theory  of  life  as  a  mere  rub- 
bing along  in  the  old  house  on  the  old  estate,  both 
slowly  wearing  to  decay  without  discomfort  and 
without  shock.  All  he  wants  is  to  live  by  the  land, 
as  his  fathers  did  before  him,  making  it  pay  for  all 
their  mistakes.  His  farmers  farm  stupidly,  his  la- 
borers fly  to  the  towns,  he  has  a  spendthrift  son  in 
the  army— like  his  sire,  one  of  the  best  fellows  in 
the  world.  Yet  it  never  strikes  him  for  one  moment 
that  his  wasteful  housekeeping,  his  mortgages,  his 
entails,  his  huge  system  of  patriarchal  dependence, 
is  anything  less  than  in  the  nature  of  things.  He 
is  everything  such  a  man  may  be  expected  to  be: 
not  a  Tory,  only  a  Conservative,  in  favor  of  ' '  reason- 
able reforms, ' '  such,  for  instance,  as  the  one  affecting 
the  precedence  of  baronets;  not  a  Protectionist,— the 
name  brings  a  shock  to  his  mind,— but  only  a  per- 
son desiring  a  moderate  duty  for  the  encouragement 
of  agriculture.  He  is  a  moderate  churchman— cer- 
tainly not  High,  undoubtedly  not  Low,  one  capable 
of  tempering  the  rigor  of  the  demand  for  the  east- 
ward position  by  the  offer  of  an  east-by-north.  He 
compounds  for  the  confessional  by  now  and  then 
asking  his  vicar  to  dinner,  and  casually  putting 
points  of  conduct  to  him  over  the  wine.  There  is 
nothing  wrong  with  him  in  the  world  but  his  horo- 
scope: he  is  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  born  just  two 
centuries  too  late. 

To  have  everything  in  keeping,  his  home  is  his 
castle  in  the  most  exact  sense  of  the  term.  Where 
else  could  he  live  but  in  one  of  the  beautiful  old 


The  Yellow  Van 

moated  halls  still  to  be  found  in  England,  with 
living  water  in  the  moat?  He  still  raises  his  draw- 
bridge every  night  and  lowers  it  every  morning, 
just  because  his  fathers  had  done  the  like  for  cen- 
turies, and  he  really  is  not  equal  to  the  effort  of 
beginning  to  leave  off.  His  habits  are  not  to  be  af- 
fected by  anything  so  transient  as  the  new  dispensa- 
tion of  a  county  constabulary.  What  joy  in  the 
thought  of  this  continuing  city  amid  the  eternal  flux 
of  things!  You  may  enter  without  difficulty  by  a 
stone  bridge  on  the  other  side,— the  tradespeople  do 
so  enter  every  day,— but  that  does  not  count. 


117 


XIII 

HE  house  comes  in  view  at  last, 
peeping  forth  from  its  belt  of  trees 
as  the  duchess  approaches  it  on  this 
summer  day.  The  trees  were  part 
of  the  old  scheme  of  fortification. 
You  might  pass  them  without  sus- 
pecting that  they  screened  an  abode  of  men.  The 
garrison  lay  in  hiding,  or  pounced  forth  in  sudden 
aggression,  according  to  circumstances.  Now  that 
concealment  is  no  longer  necessary,  they  show  a  gable 
at  need,  or  even  a  whole  facade,  through  the  gaps. 
On  one  side  you  catch  sight  of  a  whole  range  of 
domestic  Tudor  rising  sheer  from  the  moat,  where 
parts  of  it,  resting  on  columns  of  solid  stonework, 
stand  like  a  man  in  water  up  to  the  knees.  In  an- 
other facade  the  owners  before  building  have  mani- 
festly been  at  peace  with  the  world.  The  struggle 
of  the  more  elemental  kind  is  over.  No  one  is  going 
to  disturb  the  Liddicots.  The  architect  therefore 
plans  for  lawns  sloping  to  the  water's  edge,  treats 
himself  to  the  stone  bridge  aforesaid,  and  cuts  down 
the  trees  to  give  a  fair  view  of  his  handiwork. 

The  drawbridge  is  lowered  now,  "for  fun,"  as 
Mary  promised,  and  that  young  person  is  seen 
waving  joyous  welcome  from  the  castellated  porch 

118 


The  Yellow  Van 

beyond.  Augusta  answers  the  signal  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, and,  at  the  same  time,  becomes  aware  of 
the  master  of  the  house.  He  is  fishing  in  the  moat 
from  his  study  window,  and  he  decamps  in  some 
confusion  to  take  his  place  at  his  own  door,  where 
he  is  seen  in  an  entirely  suitable  framework.  He 
is  of  middle  height,  sturdy,  square  to  the  four  winds 
—still  like  his  dwelling.  He  looks  engagingly  dense, 
obstinate,  unideal— and  golden-hearted  where  he 
likes,  but  only  there.  The  manner  is  blunt— one  can 
hardly  say  to  a  fault.  He  has  a  singular  brevity  of 
conversational  style,  due  to  a  desire  to  ' '  get  it  over ' ' 
with  the  smallest  possible  delay.  His  broad  face 
is  now  all  melted  out  of  its  ordinary  lines  of  char- 
acter by  his  unaffected  joy  at  the  sight  of  his  guest. 
He  bows  his  bare  head  low  over  her  hand  in  courtly 
style,  leads  her  to  the  foot  of  the  great  oak  stair- 
case, and  then,  surrendering  her  to  his  daughter, 
turns  aside  into  the  dining-room  to  await  her  re- 
turn. 

' '  Mary,  what  a  place ! ' '  murmurs  Augusta,  as 
they  come  down-stairs. 

"  Wait  till  you  have  seen  it,"  laughs  the  girl. 
"Dad,  you  had  better  let  me  be  guide:  you  are  too 
slow.  I  '11  show  you  over  at  the  same  time,  if  you 
behave  yourself." 

"All  right,  my  dear.  I  shall  be  here  when  you 
want  me.  Don't  trust  to  her  dates,  duchess:  when- 
ever she  gets  beyond  the  Eestoration,  I  have  to  dig 
her  out." 

A  great  peace  steals  over  Augusta's  mind  as  she 


The  Yellow  Van 

strolls  through  the  black  oak  galleries,  the  low  bed- 
rooms, the  lofty  reception-rooms  of  these  strata  of 
the  past,  with  their  furniture,  folios,  armor,  gear 
of  hall,  and  gear  of  bower  all  in  perfect  keeping. 

"  We  have  everything  a  genuine  old  place  should 
have,  I  think,"  says  Mary,  simply,  "including  the 
entire  absence  of  a  bed  slept  in  by  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Those  beds  are  only  for  the  new-fashioned  show- 
houses,  and  Wardour  street  can  hardly  keep  pace 
with  the  demand.  If  you  want  something  real  in  that 
line,  we  can  show  you  a  bed  stuffed  with  rabbit's  fur, 
the  down  of  its  day.  Don't  look  so  serious,  father 
dear." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Mary." 

"Well,  never  mind  about  the  bed;  but  please, 
Mary,  I  want  a  ghost— only  a  little  one." 

"Nothing  of  that  sort  here,"  said  the  squire. 

"  Father!  " 

"Oh,  you  mean  the  noises.  All  fancy,  that !  They 
hung  the  wrong  man,— pure  inadvertence,— and 
they  thought  he  walked.  They  fidgeted— that  was 
all.  Besides,  it  was  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and 
what  's  that  to  do  with  us?" 

"Yes;  but  they  hung  him  up -stairs,  dad." 

"Up-stairs?"  shuddered  Augusta. 

"Old  times,  you  know,  duchess.  We  had  to  do 
everything  on  the  premises  then,  even  the  judging 
and— the  rest.  Modern  improvements  since— cir- 
cuits, jails,  and  what  not.  Every  man's  house  was 
his  workshop,  too.  We  've  a  suit  of  Saxon  armor, 
all  steel,  and  all  made  in  the  place." 

120 


The  Yellow  Van 

"All  very  well  for  the  armor,  Sir  Henry,  I  dare 
say.  But  for  the  hanging— who  gave  them  the 
right?  " 

"Manorial  courts,  you  know— every  lord  of  a 
manor  his  own  judge,  jury,  executioner.  I  assure 
you,  there  was  no  other  way.  Great  improvements 
now,  and  all  for  the  best,  I  Ve  no  doubt." 

"The  duchess  wants  to  see  the  room,  father." 

"Mary!"  "Mary!"— from  both  host  and  guest. 
Yet,  somehow,  one  led  the  way,  and  the  other  fol- 
lowed. There  was  really  nothing  to  see  but  a  long, 
bare  attic  immediately  under  the  roof,  with  huge 
whitewashed  cross-beams,  which  looked  little  more 
than  a  streak  in  the  artificial  gloom.  The  squire 
seemed  to  feel  that  some  apology  was  expected. 

"You  see,  it  was  very  hard  to  keep  the  field-labor- 
ers from  passing  out  of  their  class  and  place  of  set- 
tlement and  going  to  the  towns  to  pick  up  a  trade. 
It  is  a  difficulty  even  now,  I  assure  you.  Our  people 
were  hard  sometimes — I  can't  deny  that.  We  have 
funny  entries  in  the  old  register  down-stairs—burn- 
ing on  the  forehead,  and  what  not.  Shocking!  I 
hate  all  that  excess.  But  I  suppose  this  really  was  a 
bad  case.  It  's  the  only  one  on  the  family,  so  far 
as  I  know.  My  grandfather's  grandfather  used 
merely  to  put  'm  in  the  stocks,  and  he  would  be 
called  unreasonable  now.  We  must  march  with  the 
times. ' ' 

"Oh,  we  have  been  a  disreputable  gang  in  our 
day!"  laughs  Mary.  "We  can  show  you  a  turret- 
chamber  in  the  other  wing  where  one  of  our  re- 

121 


The  Yellow  Van 

moter  grandmamas  had  to  pass  her  honeymoon  be- 
hind bars  and  bolts,  after  she  had  been  stolen  from 
her  father's  house." 

"They  went  too  far;  I  've  told  you,  they  went 
too  far,"  says  the  squire,  testily,  as  he  turns  from 
the  room.  ' '  What  can  you  say  more  ?  But  we  might 
still  learn  a  thing  or  two,  even  from  them.  I  'm 
going  to  offer  you  a  carp  at  luncheon,  duchess, 
caught  in  the  moat  this  morning,  and  own  brother 
in  point  of  dressing  and  flavor  to  one  that  was  stewed 
in  wine  for  King  Henry  VII  when  he  passed  this 
way  four  hundred  years  ago." 

"You  must  give  me  the  receipt  for  Allonby,  Sir 
Henry." 

"Mary  will  turn  it  into  plain  English  for  you. 
It  is  in  our  old  buttery-book — one  of  the  best  bits 
of  reading  in  the  library.  You  have  to  know  how 
to  read  it,  though.  It  is  all  in  monkish  script,  and 
it  looks  as  spider-webbed  as  a  writ  of  Edward  III. ' ' 

"And  all  illuminated,  if  you  please,"  adds  Mary, 
"with  an  initial  letter  showing  one  early  Liddicot 
at  dinner  helping  himself  with  thumb  and  finger, 
and  another  wiping  his  mouth  with  his  sleeve  and 
looking  as  though  he  had  done  no  evil.  Oh,  we  really 
were  a  disreputable  set  once  upon  a  time!  Please 
don't  ask  questions  about  the  plate,  duchess.  Some 
of  it  was  no  better  than  what  the  dreadful  house- 
Breaking  people  nowadays  call  'swag'— bagged  from 
the  looted  chateaux  by  a  Liddicot  who  served  under 
the  Regent  Bedford  in  the  French  wars. ' ' 

"Mary,  don't  tease,"  says  her  father. 

122 


The  Yellow  Van 

After  luncheon  they  generously  leave  him  to  his 
nap,  on  pretense  of  a  stroll  through  the  rooms. 
There  is  the  usual  mixture  of  good  and  bad  in  the 
picture-gallery,  most  of  it  old  indeed,  but  not  all 
genuine.  Some  of  the  Titians  were  never  seen  by 
that  master.  Yet  they  were  entirely  adequate  for 
wonder  and  delight  to  earlier  Liddicots  who  had  ac- 
quired them  on  the  grand  tour.  Mingled  with  these 
are  the  family  portraits— dames  and  damsels  of 
many  epochs  (some,  in  which  the  family  expression 
reappears  after  temporary  eclipse,  looking  like  Mary 
dressed  for  a  masquerade) ,  judges  and  soldiers,  with 
here  and  there  the  kings  they  served.  Both  the 
ladies  stop  before  the  effigy  of  a  cavalryman  of  our 
time,  still  glistening  with  the  glories  of  varnishing- 
day at  the  Academy,  fair,  yet  well  tanned  by  field- 
sports,  well  groomed,  square-chinned,  round-headed, 
close-cropped,  and  with  a  look  of  satisfaction  in  the 
joy  of  being,  characteristic  of  those  spoiled  children 
of  Fortune  whom  she  has  never  put  to  the  trouble 
of  saying  "No." 

' '  That  's  my  brother  Tom, ' '  says  the  girl,  fondly, 
in  answer  to  the  other's  glance  of  inquiry,  "and 
he  's  coming  down  next  week." 

"What  a  lovely  man— I  mean  what  a  fine,  hand- 
some fellow.  Is  n't  he  just  perfect!" 

"Oh,  he  's  not  so  bad,  though  I  say  it,  and  the 
most  good-natured  thing  in  the  world.  But  he  's 
just  a  little  costly  for  poor  father.  Not  that  he  can 
help  that:  it  's  a  crack  regiment,  you  know." 

"I    suppose    he  's    hard    at   work   at   his   mili- 

123 


The  Yellow  Van 

tary  studies,  with  all  this  trouble  ahead  at  the 
Cape." 

"I  don't  think  so.  You  see,  he  had  to  pass,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  before  he  got  in,  and  they 
don't  trouble  them  much  after  that.  And,  besides, 
he  knows  where  he  is  on  a  horse,  and  he  's  quite  a 
beautiful  shot;  so  there  does  n't  seem  much  more  to 
learn. ' ' 

"One  sometimes  fancies  there  might  be,"  says  the 
duchess,  gravely.  "But  I  dare  say  he  has  quite 
enough  to  do." 

"Never  a  moment  to  spare,  I  assure  you,  and 
four  house-parties  ahead.  It  was  a  terrible  London 
season;  in  fact,  he  's  coming  down  to  rest." 

"Please  bring  him  to  Allonby,  dear,  before  the 
week  is  out.  I  hope  I  shall  have  a  brother  to  show 
you  soon.  I  've  written  for  Arthur,  who  has  just 
left  college.  The  baby,  I  call  him,  because  he  's 
three  years  younger  than  I  am;  but  he  'd  pass  for 
a  man,  all  the  same." 

"That  will  be  nice." 

The  girl  is  for  hurrying  on ;  but  the  duchess  insists 
on  stopping  to  look  at  another  portrait  that  hangs 
by  the  side  of  Tom's.  It  is  Mary  herself.  She  is 
very  handsome,  tall  and  finely  built.  She  has  dig- 
nity— a  courteous  and  gentle  dignity,  not  by  any 
means  the  terrifying  "hauteur"  of  the  melodra- 
matic heroine,  though  the  head  is  held  very  high 
and  the  whole  posture  is  strong  and  quietly  self-pos- 
sessed. The  dress,  so  far  as  one  can  see  it  beneath 
the  big  cloak,  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  lace  tea-gown, 

I24 


The  Yellow  Van 

freely  flowing.  The  face  is  a  full  oval  (not  a  peaky 
egg-shape),  the  nose  straight  and  somewhat  Grecian. 
Large  brown  eyes,  frank  and  kind,  and  beautifully 
curved,  full  lips,  give  the  face  an  expression  of 
truth  and  sweetness.  Over  the  brow,  which  is  broad 
and  high,  the  hair  descends  in  little  films  and  curls, 
and  is  piled  up  on  the  head  in  light  masses.  Resting 
on  these  clouds  of  b'rown,  a  large  black  hat  with 
plumes  sweeps  upward  in  a  bold  slant.  It  reminds 
one  of  the  head-gear  of  some  Velasquez  portrait— 
a  Spanish  general  or  monarch ;  and  the  folds  of  the 
dark  mantle,  lightened  as  it  is  by  creamy  satin  and 
lace,  voluminously  falling  from  the  shoulders  and 
down  the  front,  add  to  the  rich  and  flowing  effect. 
It  is  pleasantly  free  from  the  frightened,  unim- 
aginative stiffness  of  ordinary  modern  costume.  Yet 
Mary  is  no  Velasquez  lady  with  mysterious  eyes 
that  look  at  one  straight  and  brimful  of  meaning, 
yet  will  not  reveal  one  of  their  myriad  secrets.  In 
spite  of  her  great  mantle  and  sweeping  hat,  Velas- 
quez would  either  have  refused  to  paint  her,  or  he 
would  have  given  her  different  eyes  and  a  different 
expression.  Her  attraction  thus  transformed  might, 
to  some  tastes,  be  more  powerful,  but  she  would  have 
lost  her  simple  English  quality,  and  the  grand,  free, 
modern  look  that  belongs  peculiarly  to  our  day— 
if  portraits  truly  represent  the  women  of  the  past. 

At  their  leave-taking  Mary  gives  her  guest  a  bunch 
of  rare  and  precious  ferns  that  might  have  suggested 
a  whole  course  of  lectures  to  a  professor  of  botany 
—maidenhair,  spleenwort,  three-leaved  saxifrage, 

125 


The  Yellow  Van 

hart's-tongue,  ivy-leaved  snapdragon,  even  umbel- 
lated  chickweed,  picked  from  the  crannies  of  wall 
and  roof,  or  from  the  crumbling  brickwork  of  the 
moat. 

The  duchess  wonders  as  she  drives  away  whether 
men  or  mosses  have  anything  more  to  fear  when  once 
they  have  turned  the  corner  of  a  thousand  years. 


126 


XIV 

HE  found  the  duke  out  of  sorts  on 
her  return. 

"He  won't  sell— and  be  hanged 
to  him ! "  he  said,  handing  her  a  let- 
ter from  his  solicitors.  One  of  the 
inclosures  was  a  note  from  his 
neighbor,  Mr.  Kisbye  of  "The  Grange,"  refusing 
to  part  with  a  piece  of  land  on  any  terms. 

Years  ago,  in  a  fatal  moment  when  the  duke's 
agent  happened  to  be  looking  the  other  way,  Mr. 
Kisbye  snapped  up  a  field  or  two  that  impaired 
the  rounded  integrity  of  the  ducal  domain. 

This  purchase  cut  right  into  the  estate,  and 
spoiled  the  amenity  of  it.  The  intruder  got  it  by 
an  extravagant  bid  to  a  needy  owner,  at  a  time  when 
his  Grace's  solicitors  were  opening  their  parallels 
in  the  usual  impious  way  that  assumes  the  eternal 
duration  of  the  world.  He  wanted  a  country  settle- 
ment, and  here  it  was  within  a  stone's  cast  of  one 
of  the  greatest  estates  in  England.  So  he  sneaked 
it  by  purchase— much  as  the  duke's  forefathers 
might  have  sneaked  it  in  another  way.  His  Grace 
offered  to  pay  handsomely  for  his  mistake  through 
the  solicitors,  but  Mr.  Kisbye  smiled  derisively  at 
every  bid,  and  stuck  as  close  as  a  horse-fly  with  a 
lodgment. 

127 


The  Yellow  Van 

"A  Naboth's  vineyard  at  Allonby,"  Augusta 
said.  "Who  would  have  thought  it?" 

"It  is  not  exactly  that,  but  it  establishes  this 
bounder  from  town,  this  nondescript  without  any 
means  of  getting  a  living  that  can  be  known  and 
traced,  as  a  country  gentleman  and  farmer,  even  a 
landlord  in  his  small  way." 

"I  understand  a  little.  I  'm  going  to  get  quite 
as  much  annoyed  as  you  are  when  I  understand 
more. ' ' 

"It  's  his  set,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Didn't  you 
hear  them  holding  their  witches'  sabbath  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night?  " 

"I  thought  it  was  rooks,  and  took  it  for  poetry." 

"Quite  enough  to  wake  them,  with  the  glare  and 
the  noise." 

"We  're  not  obliged  to  speak  to  him." 

' '  Speak !  It  's  the  rubbing  shoulders  I  can 't 
stand." 

"Kisbye  does  not  seem  very  anxious  to  rub." 

"  No.,  the  worst  of  it  is,  they  're  beginning  to  be 
sufficient  to  themselves.  They  join  hands  across 
counties;  and  the  motor-car  brays  their  progress 
from  house  to  house  of  their  set  for  costly  guzzle, 
and  all  their  other  comforts  of  home." 

"I  haven't  exactly  got  to  that  yet,"  she  said, 
"b'ut  I  feel  that  I  'm  coming  to  it." 

"To  what?" 

l<That  horror  of  merely  living  in  the  same  hemi- 
sphere with  undesirables.  Why  not  look  the  other 
way?" 

128 


The  Yellow  Van 

"There  are  so  many  other  ways.  They  're  every- 
where. They  snap  up  all  the  old  places  in  the 
market,  and  furnish  in  a  night  and  a  day,  and,  not 
only  in  upholstery  and  dinner-services,  but  in  people 
to  sit  at  the  board.  I  assure  you  this  fellow  actu- 
ally bids  for  younger  sons  and  needy  elders  who 
don  't  always  find  it  easy  to  get  to  Allonby;  aye, 
and  gets  'em,  too." 

"Don't  you  know  why?  Because,  from  all  I  've 
heard,— through  the  open  windows,  if  you  like,— 
there  is  a  go  in  their  mirth  which  is  sometimes  want- 
ing in  the  statelier  establishments.  Their  stars  of  the 
variety  stage  are  livelier  than  those  of  Bayreuth,  and 
they  import  an  up-to-date  wickedness  of  the  asphalt 
which  puts  the  historic  and  legendary  sort  in  the 
shade.  They  can  get  art  and  literature  of  a  kind, 
even  poets  of  the  minor  constellation,  and  thinkers— 
for  metaphysics  and  the  love  of  a  good  dinner  are 
still  as  closely  allied  as  ever." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "If  they  don't 
always  know  what  to  do  with  their  chances,  they  '11 
learn  in  time.  There  are  West  End  tailors  to  rig 
them  in  the  costume  of  sport,  though  on  some  of 
them  it  sits  about  as  gracefully  as  the  court-dress  at 
wax- work  shows;  gamekeepers  to  teach  them  to 
point  a  gun,  and  even  to  carry  it;  crack  billiard- 
players  for  their  object-lessons  in  the  mathematics 
of  amusement;  and,  for  the  golf,  the  costliest  im- 
portations from  St.  Andrews,  who  are  canny  enough 
to  reserve  the  bad  language  of  uncontrollable  disgust 
for  the  safe  side  of  the  bunker.  Their  motto  is  that 

129 


The  Yellow  Van 

everything  may  be  picked  up.  They  don't  mind 
consulting  the  groom  of  the  chambers  as  to  the 
amount  of  the  tip,  and  offering  to  toss  him  for  the 
difference  between  his  estimate  and  their  bid.  The 
thing  hums.  They  buy  the  old  halls,  sometimes  only 
as  sites  and  names,  and  put  up  new  ones  of  marble 
and  plate-glass  in  their  places,  with  the  armor  still 
on  the  premises,  and  the  turret-chamber  in  com- 
munication by  telephone  with  the  Stock  Exchange. 
They  mean  business,— that  is  the  humor  of  it,— and 
they  are  going  to  fight  it  out  on  this  line  till  the 
judgment  day." 

"People  of  that  sort  always  make  me  laugh,"  said 
Augusta. 

' '  They  make  me  sad. ' ' 

' '  I  'm  sure  that  's  more  dignified. ' ' 

"Come  now,  Augusta.  Do  you  remember  that 
specimen  we  saw  at  Rome— the  one  I  had  to  com- 
plain of  to  the  landlord  of  the  hotel?" 

"Shall  I  ever  forget  him?" 

"Well,  he  's  one  of  Kisbye's  barons.  I  met  him 
yesterday,  as  large  as  life;  and  he  had  the  impu- 
dence to  bow.  Somebody  gave  me  his  history— circus 
rider  to  start  with,  declined  into  billiard-marking, 
married  a  pawnbroker's  widow,  ennobled  her  at  her 
own  expense  by  investing  part  of  the  dowry  in  a 
title.  He  gets  himself  interviewed  in  the  papers  as 
a  rollicking  blade  who  has  outridden  and  outdrunk 
the  Magyars,  and  generally  had  a  deuce  of  a  life. 
It  's  killing,  I  'm  told,  to  catch  him  in  one  of  his 
familiar  haunts  in  town.  After  a  hard  day's  work 

130 


The  Yellow  Van 

in  pursuit  of  the  widow  of  the  moment,  he  sinks 
into  a  seat  with  an  order  for  a  pint  of  beer.  That  's 
one  of  the  set  at  'The  Grange';  I  hope  you  're  an- 
noyed with  Kisbye  now." 

"No;  I  'm  still  laughing." 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  this.  I  hear  that  he  has  had 
the  impudence  to  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  a  photograph 
of  Mary  Liddicot,  and  to  hang  it  in  his  drawing- 
room  without  ever  having  exchanged  a  word  with 
her  in  his  life. ' ' 

"Now  you  may  put  him  to  death,"  said  Augusta. 


XV 


HE  peddler  rang  his  bell  as  he 
neared  the  village,  and  the  women 
came  to  their  doors.  It  was  an  au- 
dience as  well  as  a  knot  of  cus- 
tomers. He  had  things  to  sell  which 
they  could  get  nowhere  else  without 
a  long  journey ;  and  he  brought  the  local  news  and 
that  strange  atmosphere  of  the  outer  world  which 
attends  the  very  tramp  on  his  rounds.  In  his  uses 
as  a  chapman  he  had  well-nigh  everything  in  their 
simple  range  of  wants— crockery,  tinware,  scraps  of 
furniture,  plain  stuffs  and  the  wherewithal  for  their 
make-up,  writing-paper  of  the  commonest,  some  of  it 
destined  to  carry  fateful  words  from  village  homes 
to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  pipes  and  pouches 
for  the  men,  fancies  in  bead- work  or  cheap  jewelry 
for  the  women,  toys  for  the  children,  oil  for  the  mur- 
derous little  village  lamps. 

All  this  was  arranged  on  his  cart  in  most  orderly 
confusion ;  he  could  have  found  his  way  to  a  needle 
or  slate-pencil  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  you  could  have 
robbed  him  of  hardly  a  packet  of  pins  without  im- 
mediate detection.  But  no  one  wanted  to  rob  him. 
All  seemed  to  like  him,  and  to  have  friendly  rela- 
tions with  even  the  horse  in  the  shafts.  He  was  a 

132 


The  Yellow  Van 

good-looking  young  fellow ;  and  his  manners,  a  mix- 
ture of  cautious  familiarity  and  genial  sarcasm,  were 
part  of  his  stock  in  trade.  He  sold  the  article,  and 
threw  in  the  epigram  by  way  of  bonus. 

His  face  was  turned  toward  Slocum  Parva,  yet  he 
was  miles  away  from  that  restful  spot,  in  a  scene, 
if  possible,  more  restful  still.  England  has  almost 
the  secret  of  these  placid  hamlets  which  seem  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  everywhere.  His  bell,  for  all  the 
lenity  of  its  motion,  seemed  to  smite  the  stillness  with 
a  note  of  alarm. 

He  was  soon  surrounded,  mainly  by  those  who 
coveted  his  gauds.  There  is  always  something  to 
sharpen  the  appetite  of  want  in  a  general  store.  No 
human  being  might  seem  to  need  a  cow  in  glazed 
earthenware,  with  a  view  of  Brighton  inserted  as  a 
medallion  in  the  center  of  its  system;  yet  he  had 
found  a  buyer  for  such  an  article  by  urging  a  young 
woman  on  the  eve  of  marriage  to  consider  the  tragedy 
of  a  home  without  pretty  things.  It  is  a  peculiarity 
of  purchases  of  this  kind  that  they  awaken  unavail- 
ing remorse  immediately  on  the  completion  of  the 
bargain.  The  young  woman  hid  her  offense  with 
her  apron  as  she  moved  away.  He  did  a  brisk  trade, 
with  varying  fortunes,  for  the  customers  often  cut 
him  close.  His  final  encounter  was  with  a  matron 
who  had  to  complain  of  the  behavior  of  a  clock 
bought  of  him  last  week.  This  sex  is  distinguished 
by  its  twin  passions  for  adulation  and  for  the  sallies 
of  a  sprightly  audacity  which  might  seem  to  pre- 
clude it.  The  peddler  had  both  oil  and  vinegar  in 

'33 


The  Yellow  Van 

his  manner,  but  the  acid  was  only  a  subflavor,  and, 
like  a  good  salad,  he  was  preeminently  bland. 

' '  Won 't  go,  ma  'am !  Nonsense !  Let  's  have  a  look 
at  it. ' '  He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  delinquent, 
and  subjected  it  to  a  keenly  scrutinizing  gaze.  It 
was  a  most  melancholy  little  object  in  painted  wood, 
but  one  degree  above  the  timepiece  of  a  Noah's  ark. 
' '  Ah,  I  thought  so :  it  's  in  a  temper,  that  's  what  's 
the  matter  with  it.  You  bought  it  too  cheap,  ma'am, 
you  really  did.  Clocks  have  their  feelin's,  like 
Christians :  an  article  o '  this  sort  does  n  't  like  to  be 
knocked  down  at  two  and  elevenpence  ha'penny. 
But  you  've  got  such  a  way  with  you !  I  wonder  you 
did  n 't  get  it  for  nothin ' :  you  might,  if  you  'd  stood 
out." 

"None  of  your  gammon!" 

"P'r'aps  the  young  uns  have  been  playing  with 
it?  Not  as  I  tear  no  malice;  I  could  forgive  'em 
anything — children  like  that." 

"It  's  been  on  the  top  shelf  all  the  toime,  out  of 
their  reach. ' ' 

"That  's  it;  it  felt  lonesome.  There,  it  '11  be  all 
right  now." 

"It's  afeard  o'  you,  I  reckon;  it'll  go  wrong 
soon  's  you  've  turned  your  back. ' ' 

"Money  returned  if  not  found  suited;  but  give  it 
another  trial.  Do  you  know  what  I  fancied  at  fust  ? ' ' 
he  added  as  a  parting  shot.  "I  thought  somebody 
might  ha'  been  nagging  their  'usbands.  I  've  known 
a  woman 's  tongue  stop  a  clock.  Thank  you ! ' ' 

The  last  words  were  evidently  a  signal  to  the  ani- 

'34 


The  Yellow  Van 

mal  in  the  shafts,  and  the  equivalent  of  the  "Gee 
up  ! "  of  the  ordinary  commerce  of  horse-flesh.  They 
were  uttered  with  a  peculiar  intonation,  and  at  the 
sound  of  them  the  faithful  creature  moved  forward 
with  a  jerk  that  gave  a  rattle  to  the  whole  stock  in 
trade.  It  was  a  sign  of  the  completed  transaction 
in  flummery,  and  it  carried  horse  and  man  beyond 
the  reach  of  reprisal.  None  was  to  be  feared  in  this 
instance.  The  woman  laughed  a  good-natured  threat 
of  vengeance,  and  went  indoors  with  the  clock  in  her 
arms.  The  peddler,  before  leaving  the  parish  bounds, 
waylaid  a  little  girl,  and,  with  the  gift  of  a  pepper- 
mint, induced  her  to  take  charge  of  a  bundle  of  hand- 
bills for  house-to-house  distribution.  They  con- 
tained an  announcement  of  the  forthcoming  elections 
for  the  parish  councils,  and  an  earnest  appeal  to  the 
Progressive  party  at  large  to  return  candidates  of 
the  right  sort.  He  dropped  other  bills  of  the  same 
kind  on  the  bare  hedge-rows,  where,  as  they  occa- 
sionally fluttered  to  the  ground,  they  looked  like 
some  new  and  belated  variety  of  fungoid  growths. 

The  man  was  George  Herion,  of  course.  Much 
had  happened  since  he  was  last  seen.  For  one  thing, 
he  had  got  married ;  for  another,  he  had  started  the 
little  general  shop  on  wheels  wherewith  he  threatened 
defiance  to  adverse  fate  on  a  memorable  occasion. 
With  the  success  of  it  Rose  had  Been  dazzled  into 
the  great  venture,  and  Slocum  Parva  had  almost 
shaken  off.  its  terror  of  heroic  ideals.  Our  merchant 
adventurer  began  cautiously  by  buying  a  small  stock 
in  trade,  piling  it  on  a  hand-truck,  and  wheeling  it 

'35 


The  Yellow  Van 

two-and-twenty  miles  out  and  home  every  day, 
"standing  market"  for  a  rest  on  the  outward  jour- 
ney. Nothing  could  resist  such  determination.  What 
the  villages  on  one  line  of  route  refused  had  a  sec- 
ond chance  in  the  little  market  town,  and  a  third  in 
the  other  villages  on  the  home  stretch.  When  George 
had  ten  golden  sovereigns  knotted  in  his  handker- 
chief, he  told  Rose  that  the  time  had  come  to  name 
the  day.  She  named  it  without  further  hesitation. 
The  village  knew  it  that  night ;  the  duchess  knew  it 
next  morning ;  and  by  the  favor  of  that  august  per- 
son they  were  established,  within  a  fortnight,  in  their 
own  cottage,  after  one  of  the  prettiest  village  wed- 
dings Slocum  had  ever  seen. 

But  for  Augusta  they  would  have  been  homeless. 
Slocum  maintained  so  exquisite  an  adjustment  of 
means  to  end  in  house-room  that  it  had  no  place  for 
the  new  pair.  George  had  lived  with  his  mother, 
Rose  with  hers:  there  were  no  cottages  to  let.  To 
build  was  out  of  the  question:  the  area  of  human 
shelter  was  fixed  as  by  some  law  of  nature.  The 
village  was  almost  hermetically  closed  to  newcomers. 
Even  babies  were  considered  to  have  taken  an  unfair 
advantage,  and  were  discouraged  for  the  very  reason 
that  they  might  one  day  grow  up  with  claims  of 
independent  settlement  like  those  of  Rose  and 
George.  As  individuals  these  young  persons  might 
plead  a  right  of  prescription;  as  a  pair  they  were 
intruders.  The  mothers  tried  to  settle  the  matter 
with  a  happy  thought :  by  living  together  they  might 
set  one  cottage  free.  But  the  duke's  agent  was  not 

136 


The  Yellow  Van 

disposed  to  sanction  this  arrangement  until  the 
duchess  signified  that  it  had  her  entire  approval.  So 
Rose  now  lived  as  wife  in  the  cottage  in  which  she 
had  lived  as  nursling,  and,  indeed,  had  first  seen  the 
light. 

The  marriage  gave  George  more  to  work  for,  and 
so,  naturally,  he  worked  more.  He  went  on  till  he 
saved  enough  to  put  shafts  to  the  hand-cart,  and  a 
horse  to  the  shafts.  In  a  little  time  people  began 
to  turn  their  faces  toward  Slocum  when  they  wanted 
a  flat-iron  or  a  rolling-pin,  and  Randsford  saw  its 
proud  supremacy  assailed.  Rose  now  needed  little 
to  make  her  the  happiest  young  woman  in  all  the 
wide  world,  not  even  the  contrast  of  a  latent  anxiety. 
George  still  kept  up  the  interest  in  village  politics 
which  owed  its  birth  to  the  passage  of  the  van,  and 
which  had  cost  him  the  favor  of  the  "gentlefolks" 
in  the  person  of  Mr.  Kisbye.  But  the  ideal  of  well- 
being  at  Slocum  Parva  was  a  life  without  opinions 
as  the  prime  condition  of  a  life  without  events. 
Rose  trembled  for  her  mate,  now  with  vague  ap- 
prehension, and  then  again  with  joy  at  the  thought 
of  his  power  of  making  things  come  right. 

And  so,  singing  by  the  way,  the  peddler  went  from 
hamlet  to  hamlet  in  his  wide  round,  through  villages 
of  all  varieties— villages  sleepier  and  sillier  than 
Slocum  itself;  petted  villages,  coddled  as  carefully 
as  Mr.  Raif 's;  wicked  villages,  where  you  might  get 
drunk  at  unlawful  hours  by  whistling  in  the  right 
note  at  the  right  back  door;  fighting  villages,  where 
they  lived  on  dim  though  still  stimulating  memories 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  a  time  when  it  was  "Who  are  yer,  stranger?  Can 
ye  foight?"  and  off  went  their  coats  till  the  way- 
farer established  his  right  of  sojourn  by  the  ordeal 
of  battle.  He  was  greeted,  as  he  passed,  by  the 
country  sights,  the  country  sounds,  the  plow,  the 
drill,  the  humming  steam-thresher,  the  opening  notes 
of  chaffinch  or  blackbird,  the  opening  flower  of  cro- 
cus or  primrose,  here  and  there  perhaps  by  some 
almost  white-haired  school-boy  with  a  red  neck,  here- 
after, as  soldier  or  sailor,  to  keep  the  flag  in  the  sun- 
light on  its  passage  round  the  world.  Ah,  the  glori- 
ous life  of  the  road!  Amid  such  scenes  who  could 
not  wish  forever  to  defer  the  visit  of  the  ' '  terminator 
of  delights  and  the  separator  of  companions"? 

At  a  turn  of  his  course  he  drew  up  to  make  room 
for  a  carriage  and  pair  cleaving  their  way  through 
a  light  cloud  of  Olympic  dust  of  their  own  raising. 
He  had  just  time  to  recognize  the  liveries,  and  bring 
himself  to  the  salute,  when,  with  a  smile  and  a  cheer- 
ful "Good  day,  Herion,"  the  duchess  was  whirled 
out  of  sight.  The  family  was  still  in  residence,  but 
was  preparing  for  the  annual  migration  to  town. 
The  house-parties  were  over ;  the  whole  world  of  the 
British  worldlet  was  going  up  for  the  annual  meeting 
of  Parliament,  and  for  the  ordeal  by.  fire  of  the 
London  season. 

Augusta's  interest  in  George,  at  first  a  mere  con- 
sequence of  her  interest  in  Rose,  had  grown  with 
better  acquaintance.  She  had  learned  to  like  him 
for  himself,  and  for  the  variety  which  his  pluck  and 
resource  had  introduced  into  the  pattern  of  village 

138 


The  Yellow  Van 

life.  He  was  refreshing,  after  the  rather  too  mo- 
notonous note  of  submission;  and  the  sight  of  him 
somehow  seemed  to  remind  her  of  her  native  land. 
But  she  was  trying  to  learn  to  take  her  patterns  as 
she  found  them,  and  this  not  all  in  resignation,  but 
simply  as  a  philosopher  in  petticoats,  which  is  as 
much  as  to  say  a  woman  of  the  world.  Here  was 
her  new  home  and  place  of  settlement,  and  here, 
with  it,  must  be  her  new  point  of  view.  It  was  as 
fascinating  as  China  to  the  thoughtful  mind.  So 
millions  live  and  have  lived  in  their  own  way,  and 
apparently  to  the  greatest  ends,  in  a  majestic  order 
with  dependence  for  its  main  principle.  What  a 
contrast,  not  unrefreshing  at  times,  to  those  tumultu- 
ous millions  on  "the  other  side,"  where  every  man's 
morning  thought  is  how  he  may  get  one  step  ahead 
of  his  neighbor ! 

Augusta  remembered  Uncle  Gooding's  fable  of 
how  they  brought  the  great  railway  out  West.  Ac- 
cording to  this,  they  put  a  line  of  workmen  one  be- 
hind the  other,  with  the  smartest  last,  to  give  the 
time.  "The  one  ahead  had  to  keep  pace  with  the  one 
behind,  you  bet,  or  he  felt  the  point  of  the  pick  in 
his  heel  as  he  was  plugging  along.  By  gum,  sir, 
that  last  one  hotfooted  up  the  whole  circus,  and  they 
got  it  fed  into  them  that  they  had  to  hustle  for  all 
they  were  worth!" 

The  peddler  was  at  home  now,  and  the  wife  re- 
ceived him  with  a  kiss  in  a  kitchen  which  ought  to 
be  considered  the  "best  room"  of  the  house,  since  it 
was  at  least  without  pretense  of  style.  But  his  ad- 

139 


The  Yellow  Van 

miration,  like  hers,  was  reserved  for  the  lurid  glories 
of  another  chamber  into  which  at  last  they  peeped 
fondly  on  their  way  up-stairs.  There  it  was  in  its 
sanctities  of  plush- framed  photographs — George  in 
his  Sunday  wear,  colored  like  life,  Rose  in  her  wed- 
ding hat;  in  its  antimacassars,  saddle-bag  suites, 
tormented  carpets,  their  patterns  echoing  the  cries 
of  pain  from  the  walls.  Ah,  how  grateful  they  felt, 
how  good,  at  the  thought  of  all  this  redeeming  gaiety 
and  beauty  in  their  rather  sordid  lives!  The  peep 
into  the  best  room  especially  was  almost  devotional 
in  its  effects.  George  registered  a  silent  vow  to  be 
more  deserving  of  his  new-found  luck.  Rose  mingled 
the  thought  of  it  with  her  prayers. 


140 


XVI 

HE  family  had  left  for  town.  The 
great  house  was  shut  up.  But  Slo- 
cum  was  saved  from  the  void  of 
human  interests  by  the  election  of 
its  first  parish  council.  The  prob- 
lem of  such  an  election  in  such  a 
place  should  be  dear  to  science  as  to  history,  since 
it  touches  on  the  question  of  the  indivisibility  of 
matter  in  the  legislative  domain.  You  cannot  get 
much  farther  down  in  institutions  seen  under  the 
microscope.  The  relation  of  all  parliamentary 
boards  and  other  assemblies  of  the  British  govern- 
mental scheme  to  this  speck  on  the  planet  is  that  of 
Ossa  to  the  wart.  Slocum's  council  is  the  village 
senate,  the  village  administration,  the  village  forum, 
the  village  tribune  in  one.  It  is  still  a  new  thing. 
Parliament,  finding  the  peasantry  clamorous  for  the 
right  to  manage  their  own  affairs,  has  tossed  them 
this  log.  So  it  is  Gurth  the  swineherd  at  the  council, 
with  Wamba  the  witless,  if  he  can  find  a  place,  and, 
with  them,  Cedric  the  Saxon,  and  even  Brian  de 
Bois-Guilbert,  retired,  if  any  can  manage  to  com- 
mend himself  to  the  favor  of  the  tiny  electorate. 

There  is  something  quite  captivating  in  the 
thought  of  the  exquisite  littleness  of  the  whole  thing. 
The  observer  seems  to  watch  the  processes  of  insect 

141 


The  Yellow  Van 

life.  Here  is  the  smallest  unit,  the  very  protoplasm 
of  corporate  existence,  and  it  has,  as  such,  the  charm 
of  all  absolutes.  You  can  hardly  get  nearer  to  the 
vanishing-point  of  institutions  than  the  village 
council.  It  has  been  known  to  have  an  audit  of 
nineteen  shillings  and  eightpence  ha'penny  for  the 
entire  year.  One  may  conceive  a  worn  chancellor 
of  the  exchequer  turning  to  its  debates  for  refresh- 
ment of  spirit  after  a  budget  night.  The  question 
of  the  abolition  of  the  village  pump,  in  favor  of  a 
supply  from  the  mains,  means  as  much  to  Slocum 
as  the  abolition  of  slavery  or  the  repeal  of  the  corn- 
laws  once  meant  to  the  world  at  large. 

It  should  have  been  a  walk-over  for  the  Conserva- 
tive party;  but  new  yearnings,  new  hopes  had  come 
with  the  yellow  van.  It  is  idle  to  make  a  secret  of 
it:  Slocum  Parva  was  undermined  with  subversive 
literature  about  village  rights.  The  batteries  were 
charged  at  George's;  so  much  was  known.  Peascod 
had  several  times  brought  to  the  station  dangerous 
handbills  left  in  the  hedge-rows.  Bad  characters 
were  growing  bold.  Bangs,  the  poacher,  had  openly 
defied  the  collector  of  Easter  offerings  for  the 
church. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  significance 
of  this  incident  as  it  stood  entered  in  the  constable's 
official  report. 

As  the  collector  entered  the  reprobate 's  cottage  on 
his  peaceful,  not  to  say  his  holy,  mission,  Bangs 
called  out  ominously  to  his  son  in  the  back  room, 
"Boy,  put  the  poker  on  the  fire." 

142 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  collector  began  to  collect. 

"Is  it  hot,  boy?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Well,"— to  the  collector,— "I  've  heard  of  meat- 
offerings and  of  drink-offerings;  I  '11  give  you  a 
burnt-offering  if  you  don't  get  out." 

The  collector  left  in  haste.  We  live  in  strange 
times. 

Then  England  was  still  under  the  shock  of  the 
tremendous  news  from  South  Africa,  and  Slocum 
Parva  was  a  part  of  England,  if  only  a  speck  of  its 
dust.  A  few  weeks  after  the  departure  of  the  ducal 
family  came  the  declaration  of  war,  with  all  that 
followed,  "recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout,  and 
triumph  and  despair."  Stormberg,  Magersfontein, 
Colenso  in  one  black  week ;  Spion  Kop ;  and  then 
again  hope,  with  Paardeberg  and  Bloemfontein. 
The  most  startling  event  of  all  for  the  village  had 
been  the  hasty  departure  of  Captain  Liddicot  for  the 
front,  with  his  regiment,  on  the  very  eve  of  the 
Christmas  festivities,  with  Mary  turning  recluse  and 
knitting  comforters,  and  her  father's  sentient  life 
reduced  to  one  protracted  exclamation  of  "Bless  my 
soul ! "  In  an  atmosphere  so  charged  with  electricity 
even  Slocum  could  not  preserve  its  wonted  calm. 

There  were  five  members  to  be  chosen,— that  was 
the  minimum  allowed  by  law,— and  there  were  six 
candidates.  The  Conservatives  had  put  up  for  all 
the  seats.  Their  phalanx,  which  they  believed  irre- 
sistible, consisted  of  Kisbye,  Grimber,  and  the  school- 
master, Parson  Raif,  the  nominee  of  the  castle,  and 

"43 


The  Yellow  Van 

one  Fawke,  a  person  in  the  grocery  and  lollypop 
line,  who  ran  in  the  same  general  interest,  but  with 
some  stress  on  a  harmless  question  of  his  own  affect- 
ing the  management  of  the  annual  flower  show.  But 
George  had  determined  to  set  up  one  candidate  for 
the  Radicals,  and  had  succeeded  in  persuading  Spurr 
to  quit  his  retirement  for  public  life.  This  aged  per- 
son, though,  as  we  have  seen,  no  orator,  was  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  doomed  class  of  small  farmers  whose 
all  but  fruitless  struggle  to  keep  themselves  out  of 
the  workhouse  might  be  expected  to  touch  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  electorate.  The  constituency  could 
not  possibly  carry  more.  George  canvassed  for  him, 
spoke  for  him,  in  spite  of  the  sickening  forebodings 
of  Rose,  who  sought  confirmation  of  her  worst  fears 
in  the  prophecies  of  the  penny  almanac.  She  found 
no  specific  warning  against  the  danger  of  "tamper- 
ing with  parish  councils,"  her  constant  theme;  but 
this,  of  course,  was  only  an  oversight  on  the  part  of 
the  reader  of  the  stars. 

Nothing  could  prevent  George  from  working  heart 
and  soul  for  his  man.  As  one  born  and  bred  in  the 
village,  he  knew  what  he  knew.  For  behind  these 
fair  outsides  of  Slocum,  with  their  honeysuckle 
porches,  there  were  sometimes  dire  realities.  In  the 
dry  weather  our  peddler,  after  his  hard  day 's  work, 
had  often  to  walk  a  mile  to  get  a  couple  of  pails  of 
drinking-water  for  his  wife's  use.  It  was  lucky 
for  the  duchess  that  she  did  not  push  her  researches 
in  Samson's  cottage  as  far  as  the  back  premises.  She 
would  have  found  the  narrow  yard  one  pool  of  slush, 

I44 


The  Yellow  Van 

and,  in  spite  of  the  occasional  brickbats  used  as  step- 
ping-stones, would  have  risked  damage  to  her  dainty 
shoes.  The  rain  and  the  damp  at  times  claimed  free 
right  of  entry  in  these  ramshackle  bowers  of  bliss. 
The  workmen  from  London  who  came  down  for  the 
wedding  decorations  would  hardly  look  at  them  as 
dwelling-places. 

The  overcrowding  was  sometimes  terrible,  in  spite 
of  the  refusal  to  build — or  because  of  it.  Slocum 
knew  how  many  members  of  growing  families  were 
occasionally  crowded  into  one  room.  What  our  vil- 
lage Hampden  wanted  was  to  get  these  things  set 
right;  with  his  instinct  of  self-help, — the  instinct 
that  had  enabled  him  to  recover  himself  after  the 
mishap  at  Mr.  Kisbye's,— he  thought  that  only  the 
village  in  council  could  manage  it.  His  soul  sick- 
ened against  all  the  meddlesome  guidance  from 
above  that  was  but  coddling  at  the  best— the  very 
charity  blankets  lent  in  winter  and  sealed  up  during 
the  summer,  the  seal  to  be  broken  only  by  the  house- 
keeper at  the  Towers. 

The  combat  was  now  joined.  Skett,  the  navvy, 
was  pressed  into  the  service,  and  was  engaged,  very 
much  in  the  manner  of  a  famous  character  of  drama, 
to  represent  a  wall  whereon  the  Progressives  might 
exhibit  a  placard  which  was  strung  round  his  neck 
as  he  sat  at  the  cottage  door.  Sally  Artifex  promised 
a  public  canvass  of  the  entire  womanhood  of  the  vil- 
lage, not  so  much  in  the  interest  of  any  political 
party  as  with  a  view  to  the  selection  of  candidates 
pledged  to  the  practice  of  all  the  domestic  virtues, 


The  Yellow  Van 

especially  on  the  part  of  the  male  sex.  The  Con- 
servative interest  stood  proudly  aloof  from  these 
anxieties,  relying  on  the  all-sufficiency  of  its  nod  at 
the  right  moment.  Only  Mr.  Kisbye  rode  more  fre- 
quently through  the  village,  and  slightly  deepened 
his  scowl,  while,  to  nice  observers,  Herbert  Peascod, 
on  his  beat,  seemed  to  keep  the  Knuckle  of  Veal  in 
detective  observation  as  the  headquarters  of  the  ene- 
mies of  the  country.  The  powers  that  be  were  all 
indifferent  or  worse,  knowing  that  the  new  council 
was  only  one  more  institution  to  capture.  There 
was  one  exception:  the  High-church  recluse,  Mr. 
Bascomb,  made  an  unwonted  irruption  into  the  po- 
litical arena  as  a  supporter  of  the  popular  ticket. 

For  the  rest,  even  smug  Mr.  Grimber  from  Lon- 
don boldly  proclaimed  that  he  was  for  the  castle,  and 
did  not  care  who  knew  it.  What  was  good  enough 
for  the  Duke  of  Allonby  was  good  enough  for  him. 
The  powers  of  darkness,  as  represented  by  the  larger 
areas  of  local  government,  looked  down  on  Slocum 
Parva  with  undisguised  contempt.  The  scorn  of  Al- 
lonby Towers  had  a  spice  of  mirth  in  it,  and  so  was 
tempered  by  good  nature.  The  Duke  of  Allonby 's 
amazement  at  the  thought  of  this  village  was  sublime 
in  its  intensity,  if  not  exactly  in  its  mode  of  expres- 
sion. His  village,  in  all  its  goings  out  and  its  com- 
ings in,  it  was,  and  ever  should  be ;  and  the  thought 
of  its  having  a  will  of  its  own  tickled  him  to  that 
degree!  The  words  were  his,  and  so  was  the  trick 
of  leaving  the  rest  of  the  sentence  to  the  imagination 
of  his  hearers. 

146 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  populace  would  soon  be  ready  for  anything. 
This  very  night  an  orator  standing  on  a  chair  out- 
side the  Knuckle  of  Veal  publicly  clamored  for  a 
new  letter-box  for  the  benefit  of  the  straggling  con- 
tinuation of  the  village  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond 
its  center.  He  was  succeeded  by  a  carter,  who  said 
there  never  would  be  quiet  in  the  country-side  till 
Sokes  Lane,  that  well-known  short  cut  between  two 
main  roads,  had  a  new  coating  of  metal,  and  a  full 
cart-load  in  the  hole  at  the  bend.  Then,  as  to  the 
charities,  a  new  recruit,  and  a  woman  this  time,  for 
the  sex  had  mysteriously  left  the  fence,  asked  if  it 
were  "trew"  that  the  old  writings  provided  for  fuel 
without  respect  of  persons,  while  under  the  new 
practice  it  was  "no  churchman,  no  coals." 

But  the  water  was  the  burning  question,  strange 
as  that  may  seem.  It  threw  out  a  heat,  in  the  course 
of  discussion,  that  led  to  the  removal  of  the  meeting 
to  the  inn  parlor,  where  the  flame  was  partly  reduced, 
again  in  a  manner  contrary  to  experience,  fty  the  use 
of  spirituous  fluids.  The  village  had  now  discovered 
that  it  wanted  water  all  the  year  round.  At  present 
it  had  to  depend  upon  its  wells.  But  nature  some- 
times forgot  Slocum  Parva,  and  there  were  days 
when  water  was  as  dear  as  "tuppenny,"  and  bad  at 
that.  Such  were  the  statements  overheard  through 
the  open  window  of  the  inn.  They  were  boldly  con- 
tradicted by  the  Conservative  interest,  otherwise 
called  the  Moderate,  which  remained  outside  the 
building  in  protest  for  this  occasion.  ,  The  Conserva- 
tive interest,  quoting  a  letter  of  one  of  its  cousins, 

H7 


The  Yellow  Van 

argued  that  Australia  got  on  very  well  in  spite  of 
droughts,  since  common  laborers  there  earned  five 
shillings  a  day.  A  voice  from  within  said  that  Slo- 
cum  might  manage  to  make  do  with  the  wells,  if 
some  one  would  only  put  pumps  to  them.  It  was 
the  everlasting  bucket  going  up  and  down  that 
troubled  the  water,  and  in  summer  made  its  muddy 
sediment  yield  "worms  and  insecks  and  things,"  in- 
stead of  potable  fluid. 

A  Conservative,  suspected  to  be  Mr.  Grimber,  cre- 
ated a  diversion  by  asking  who  was  to  pay  for  the 
pumps.  There  was  a  moment's  consternation  within 
the  building,  when  another  voice  replied  mockingly, 
and  with  the  expected  reward  of  a  guffaw,  "His 
Goodness  Gracious,  to  be  sure,"  an  allusion  to  the 
owner  of  the  Towers  as  unmistakable  as  it  was  in- 
solent. 

"Men,  men,"  cried  George,  in  his  cheery  voice, 
"we  don't  want  any  stuff  o'  that  sort." 

The  meeting  now  seemed  to  get  completely  out  of 
hand,  until  its  very  promoters  grew  terrified  at  the 
spirit  which  they  had  raised. 

"When  Bangs  (his  words  were  taken  down)  bel- 
lowed, "Why  can't  we  have  water-pipes,  like  the 
duke  and  Squire  Liddicot?"  the  landlord  himself 
grew  alarmed,  and  said  with  becoming  severity, 
"Gently,  please." 

It  was  anybody's  meeting  now,  and  a  Camille 
Desmoulins  might  have  run  a  free  course.  The  wild- 
est cries  were  heard  amid  the  din. 

"Oil-lamps  for  the  main  street!" 

148 


The  Yellow  Van 

"A  playground  for  the  children!" 

' '  Seats  in  the  shady  lane ! ' ' 

Mr.  Grimber  turned  homeward  with  the  reflection 
that  he  should  never  have  thought  to  see  this  day; 
and  other  well-disposed  persons  followed  his  example. 

Then  the  meeting  Began  to  talk  of  letting  the  shoot- 
ing over  the  old  gravel-pits  which  were  given  to  the 
parish  after  the  great  inclosure  of  1810,  and  Bangs 
offered  to  bid. 

The  landlord  put  out  the  lights. 


149 


XVII 

HE  great  day  of  the  election  came  at 
last— just  because  it  had  to  come. 
They  were  all  afraid  of  it  as  some- 
thing impending,  and  would  gladly 
have  put  it  off.  It  was  a  fairish 
day,  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  not 
much  more  so  than  the  one  that  went  before.  You 
might  never  have  guessed  with  what  sort  of  event 
it  was  charged. 

The  result  was  a  startling  surprise.  George  got 
his  man  in,  at  the  expense— of  all  persons— of  the 
castle 's  candidate !  Spurr  triumphed  over  Mr.  Raif . 
The  Conservatives,  who  took  for  the  occasion  their 
second  baptismal  name  of  Moderates,  had  expected 
to  have  it  all  their  own  way.  They  were  left  with 
but  four  winners,  Kisbye  and  the  schoolmaster, 
Grimber  and  Fawke.  Radicalism,  treacherously 
calling  itself  Progressive  to  confuse  the  issue,  had 
effected  a  lodgment  in  the  sacred  soil.  Its  victory 
had  all  the  interest  that  might  attach  to  the  creation 
of  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death.  The  other  side 
took  it  so:  Squire  Liddicot  thought  that  things 
were  going  rather  too  far ;  the  ducal  agent  frowned ; 
Mr.  Kisbye  said  that  George  Herion  was  a  firebrand, 
and  that  there  would  b"e  no  peace  in  Slocum  till  he 
was  turned  out  of  the  place. 


The  Yellow  Van 

It  was  understood  that  there  would  be  a  full 
evening  sitting  at  the  Knuckle  of  Veal.  The  event 
had  to  be  adjusted  to  consciousness,  to  be  digested, 
so  to  speak ;  and  where  but  in  the  village  inn  ?  The 
landlord,  who  had  quite  overcome  his  rather  unpro- 
fessional displeasure  of  the  other  evening,  was  in  his 
best  humor.  There  was  a  flutter  of  expectation  in 
the  outer  bar,  as  though  new  times  were  at  hand. 
Bangs,  the  poacher,  found  other  gossips  already  as- 
sembled in  the  parlor,  old  Skett  among  them,  and 
Job  Gurt— who  would  have  been  there,  as  at  a  post 
of  duty,  in  any  case. 

It  would  be  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  black- 
smith was  a  sot.  If  he  was  a  glutton  for  drink,  he 
was  also  a  glutton  for  work.  He  earned  "good 
money,"  and,  with  his  pickings  in  the  season  at  Al- 
lonby,  turned  in  an  average  five-and-twenty  shillings 
a  week.  Sixteen  of  these  shillings  he  gave  to  his  wife 
for  housekeeping ;  the  rest  he  reserved  for  beer.  As 
he  had  no  children,  he  could  not  be  said  to  be  doing 
an  injustice  to  his  family.  He  began  with  his  gener- 
ous liquor  at  five  in  the  morning,  to  clear  his  head 
of  the  fumes  with  which  he  usually  charged  it  at 
night.  His  prudent  helpmate  took  care  that  the 
house  should  never  be  without  this  restorative.  He 
was  a  genuine  Saxon  peasant,  and  one  of  his  remoter 
ancestors  had  probably  contracted  his  final  head- 
ache by  a  blow  from  a  mace  at  Senlac.  To  be  fair 
to  him,  however,  it  should  be  said  that  he  was  on 
this  occasion  extremely  moderate  in  his  potations. 
He  had  recently  had  a  bout.  He  was  now  slowly 


The  Yellow  Van 

getting  sober  again,  so  that  his  system  might  the  bet- 
ter respond  to  treatment  with  his  favorite  beverage 
on  next  bank-holiday. 

These  and  other  small  fry  were  there  to  make  an 
audience.  The  principal  figures  who  were  more  in- 
timately connected  with  the  event  of  the  day  lin- 
gered, as  befitted  their  state.  The  first  of  them  to 
arrive  was  Mr.  Grimber,  the  retired  tallow-chandler, 
doubly  respected  as  a  Londoner  and  as  a  person  of 
independent  means.  He  may  best  be  described  as 
the  essential  ratepayer  of  the  smaller  sort,  the  de- 
spair of  the  champions  of  the  lost  causes  in  heroic 
ideals.  He  was  absolutely  self-centered,  save  for 
his  immense  reverence  for  wealth  and  station,  and 
nothing  could  exceed  his  disdain  for  all  who,  as  he 
put  it,  were  fed,  clothed,  or  educated  at  his  expense. 
He  had  paid  rates  nearly  all  his  life,— -not  without 
satisfaction  to  his  vanity  as  a  man  of  substance,— 
and  for  the  same  period  had  cherished  a  profound 
contempt  and  aversion  for  those  who  derived  the 
slightest  benefit  from  his  enforced  contributions  to 
the  public  cause.  In  short,  he  was  in  every  respect 
a  genial  model  of  skullcapped  nincompoopery,  alike 
in  body  and  in  soul. 

On  his  entry,  the  others  said  in  chorus,  "Good 
evening,  Mr.  Councilor. ' '  It  was  a  new  form  for  the 
new  occasion,  and  it  was  one  that,  as  a  precedent, 
would  govern  Slocum  for  all  future  time.  Mr.  Grim- 
ber replied,  "Good  evening,  gentlemen."  When  his 
colleague,  the  schoolmaster,  followed,  he  was  saluted 
in  the  same  way.  His  reply  was,  "Good  evening, 

152 


The  Yellow  Van 

gentlemen— and  Mr.  Councilor."  It  was  another 
precedent  for  the  ages.  Mr.  Kisbye,  of  course,  was 
not  for  this  company. 

The  defeated,  and  yet,  in  a  sense,  the  triumphant, 
party  presently  appeared  in  the  person  of  old  Spurr. 
He  was  toil-worn,  rugged,  dirty  as  usual,  and  he  had 
the  air  of  some  hunted  Hebrew  prophet  who  had 
momentarily  left  his  wilderness  in  search  of  refresh- 
ment while  dodging  the  wrath  of  a  king.  There  was 
no  sport  to  be  expected  from  his  taciturnity  and 
from  his  total  want  of  repartee.  He  even  failed  to 
comply  with  the  formula.  George,  it  was  known, 
would  be  late,  as  he  was  still  on  his  rounds.  The 
sitting,  therefore,  lacked  animation  until  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Fawke,  a  little  man,  now  swelling  with  im- 
portance, whose  face  seemed  to  say  nothing  except 
that  pudding  was  cheap.  His  flowing  salutation 
Brought  the  whole  composition  into  convivial  har- 
mony with  a  sweep  of  the  hand. 

"I  drink  your  'ealth,  sir,  and  proud  to  welcome 
you,"  said  the  ratepayer,  raising  his  glass. 

"An'  I  should  loike  to  drink  it,  tew,"  piped  Sam- 
son Skett. 

Like  most  persons  called  for  the  first  time  to  public 
station,  Mr.  Fawke  seemed  wishful  to  show  that  it 
had  not  made  him  proud. 

"I  'ardly  know  'ow  it  'appened,  I  'm  sure,"  he 
said,  "an'  when  I  think  'ow  many  there  is  in  this 
parish  that  knows  more  than  me,  I  could  almost 
throw  it  up.  I  can  only  do  my  best,  that  's  all." 

Nobody  helped  Mr.  Fawke  at  this  stage,  and  a 

J53 


The  Yellow  Van 

humane  person  might  have  felt  that  he  was  rather 
hardly  used. 

"But,  gentlemen,  it  's  no  use  tryin'  to  make  be- 
lieve. I  never  'ad  a  day's  schoolin'  in  grammar  in 
all  my  loife— an*  me  to  be  a  speaker,  too!" 

"Woire  in,  Fawke,  and  get  your  name  up.  That  's 
all  you  've  got  to  dew." 

"Well,  mates,  I  '11  say  this  for  mysen:  it 's  come 
through  no  seekin'  o'  mine.  I  'ad  n't  even  no  idee 
of  it  till  I  see  my  nime  in  the  list. ' ' 

A  voice:  "Come,  now,  didn't  'e  say  that,  if  any- 
body 'u'd  ask  'e,  you  'd  make  one?" 

"I  may  have  said  it,  but  I  asked  no  man  to  ask 
me,  and  I  canvassed  no  man,  neyther." 

The  voice:  "What  about  Maw?" 

Fawke,  changing  color:  "Now  I  '11  just  tell  'e  all 
about  that.  Maw  said  he  did  n  't  think  his  name 
was  on  the  register— casual-like,  as  we  was  passin' 
the  time  o'  day.  Well,  I  said  I  'd  look;  an'  there, 
sure  enough,  I  found  it,  an'  I  jes  let  him  know." 

The  schoolmaster:  "Why  not?  Why  not?  What 
've  ye  got  to  be  ashamed  of,  man?" 

Fawke,  taking  heart:  "I  certainly  did  say,  after 
that,  'My  number  's  four  on  the  pollin'-card';  but  it 
went  no  further." 

The  voice:  "There!" 

Fawke :  ' '  The  fact  is,  the  act  's  a  bit  too  com- 
plected. It  wants  masterin '.  'T  ain  't  so  easy  to  put 
yer  mark  agen  a  name  if  you  can't  read  the  name. 
We  'aven't  all  got  the  edication." 

Grimber,    contemptuously:    "Education,    educa- 

154 


The  Yellow  Van 

tion— nothin'  but  that  now!  I  speak  as  a  rate- 
payer. ' ' 

Job  Gurt :  "You  're  reet  there,  maister.  It  's  a  'ard 
thing  on  them  as  'ave  got  children.  A  child  as  might 
be  earnin'  a  few  pence  a  week  to  'elp  keep  'issen, 
taken  away  and  sent  to  school— as  you  might  say, 
by  force  of  arms.  It  's  a  'ard  thing  on  a  parent, 
say  Oi." 

"It 's  the  law,  and  we  've  got  to  put  up  with  it," 
growled  the  schoolmaster.  Even  he  thought  that  the 
parent  had  a  case. 

It  was  the  matured  deliverance  of  the  rural  mind 
on  this  subject.  No  one  in  that  parlor  spoke  up  for 
education;  its  warmest  apologists  simply  held  their 
peace.  And  while  silly  Slocum  talks  thus  after 
its  nature,  tremendous  Germany  and  tremendous 
America,  with  their  systems  polished  to  the  last  point 
of  perfection,  are  waiting  to  spring  on  an  unlet- 
tered prey.  Truly,  there  is  no  fighting  against  doom. 

"We  want  to  be  guided,"  said  Fawke,  directing 
his  gaze  to  an  aged  person  in  the  corner,  who  seemed 
to  require  propitiation.  "We  're  mere  young  uns 
at  it." 

It  was  the  voice  (for  this  person  was  the  owner  and 
embodiment  of  that  organ) ,  but  it  took  not  the  slight- 
est notice  of  him. 

"I  wish  it  'd  all  passed  more  amicable  and 
f riendly-like, "  continued  Fawke,  still  propitiatory. 
"I  wish  there  'ad n't  been  no  opposition  to  the  dook 
—as  one  might  say.  It  ain't  pleasant  to  'ave  a  con- 
tused election  'mong  neighbors." 

'55 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Contested,"  suggested  Grimber,  not  unkindly. 

"All  my  grammar  's  self-taught,"  said  Fawke. 

"Well,  you  got  a  progrim  o'  your  own,  I  under- 
stand, if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Grimber,  sharply. 
"What  's  your  little  game?  I  'ope  you  ain't  comin' 
on  the  rates  for  more  money." 

"I  don't  quite  ketch  your  meanin',  Mr.  Coun- 
cilor." 

"Well,  what  's  your  wheeze  for  the  free  and  in- 
dependent elector,  your  job  line,  speakin'  as  a  trades- 
man to  a  tradesman?" 

Fawke,  clearing  his  throat:  "The  question  o'  the 
day  in  Slocum  Parva,  aye,  an'  Slocum  Magna,  too, 
is  prizes  at  the  flower  an'  vegetable  show.  You  see, 
it  's  like  this  here.  Our  fust  prize  is  five  shillin ' ; 
our  second  's  two  an '  six ;  our  third  's  only  a  shillin '. 
Now  it  ain't  enough  to  encourage  laborin'  people. 
It  don't  pay,  when  p'r'aps  you  've  brought  forward 
as  many  beans,  'taters,  an'  onions  as  'u'd  cover  this 
table.  The  thing  I  've  been  workin'  for  all  my  life 
is  to  get  the  money  raised  to  seven  an'  a  kick,  five 
bob,  an'  two  an'  a  half.  That  's  the  way  to  en- 
courage industry  an'  beat  the  furiner.  An',  mark 
my  words,  it  's  got  to  come. ' ' 

"It  will  b"e  a  tough  job,"  said  Grimber.  " 'Ow 
often  do  we  meet?" 

"A  full  hour  every  month,"  said  Fawke,  eagerly, 
"sometimes  two;  an'  I  mean  to  bring  it  on  fust 
thing." 

The  discussion  could  not  be  maintained  at  this  high 
level,  and  it  soon  began  to  decline  into  sheer  incon- 

156 


The  Yellow  Van 

sequence.  Fawke  became  almost  interjectional  in  his 
vain  repetition  of  stock  phrases— "I  've  no  edica- 
tion,"  "we  do  our  best,"  "it  's  got  to  come."  Grim- 
ber  made  an  effort  to  restore  it  by  a  masterly  digres- 
sion on  the  water  question.  He  recalled  a  time  when 
the  wells  of  London  were  condemned,  owing  to  an- 
outbreak  of  cholera,  and  when  the  shop  of  his  father, 
an  undertaker,  like  a  second  Temple  of  Janus,  was 
never  closed,  night  or  day,  for  three  weeks. 

' '  I  speak  of  a  man  as  I  find  him, ' '  maundered  the 
wretched  Fawke. 

Grimber  looked  as  though  he  thought  he  would 
say  something  to  Fawke;  then  again  he  looked  as 
though  he  thought  he  would  not.  And  the  more 
merciful  view  prevailed. 

A  stir  at  the  door,  and  George  came  in.  "Good 
evenin',  gentlemen  all.  Well,  lads,  we  've  done  it" 
—shaking  hands  with  Spurr.  The  old  man  smiled 
in  iron  lines,  and,  by  way  of  showing  some  excite- 
ment of  sensibility,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

Every  kind  of  leadership  soon  makes  itself  felt, 
even  the  humblest.  All  pressed  forward  to  shake 
hands  with  the  peddler.  Mr.  Grimber  did  it  with 
the  unmistakable  air  of  taking  leave  of  him  on  his 
passage  to  perdition.  Still,  it  was  done.  The  school- 
master thought  he  was  proud  to  have  had  him  in  his 
class,  but  said  only,  "Well,  well !  Well,  well !"  with 
the  qualified  praise  which  he  had  formerly  given  to 
a  successful  lesson.  The  youngster  had  the  self-pos- 
session of  his  new  pride  in  himself.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  do  things  instead  of  merely  thinking  things 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  hoping  them— precious  moment  for  all  of  us. 
He  was  alive  with  the  new  sense  of  opportunity. 
The  village  was  not  the  narrow  place  he  once  thought. 
His  success  in  his  new  trade  showed  that  something 
might  be  done  in  Slocum,  if  one  only  tried.  And 
now  there  was  this  second  and  greater  success.  He 
might  start  the  village,  as  he  had  started  himself,  in 
some  way  of  life  less  miserably  narrow  and  bounded 
than  the  old  one.  It  was  no  revolt  against  his  bet- 
ters. He  was  a  peasant  still,  and  recognized  their 
right  to  rule  him;  all  that  he  wanted  was  to  be  al- 
lowed to  bear  a  hand.  Regenerative  ideas  mature 
slowly,  and  no  one  gets  new-born  all  at  once.  What 
a  triumph  if  he  could  endow  Slocum  with  a  tight 
thatch  and  a  pail  of  clean  drinking-water  all  the 
year  round!  He  was  elate,  radiant.  Fawke  tried 
to  introduce  his  panacea  of  the  flower  show,  but 
George  waved  him  off  with  a  laugh.  "Never  mind 
that  now ;  let  's  all  have  a  chat,  same  as  old  times. ' ' 

The  proposition  was  evidently  relished;  the  con- 
versation at  once  took  a  more  convivial  tone,  and  the 
oldest  chestnuts  of  anecdote  began  their  weary  and 
yet  welcome  round.  There  is  still  a  market  in  the 
inn  parlor  for  worn-out  jokes,  as  there  is  one  else- 
where for  worn-out  boots.  Nature  knows  nothing  of 
waste. 

The  wide,  wide  world,  too,  came  into  their  talk, 
but  only  as  the  universe  might  come  into  the  talk 
of  astronomers.  It  seemed  immeasurably  far.  Yet 
not  always  so.  They  mumbled  cricket,  even  at  this 
season,  and  it  seemed  to  bring  Australia  very  near  to 

158 


The  Yellow  Van 

them.  America  was  remote  as  being  less  in  their 
thoughts.  The  national  game  was,  in  a  manner,  their 
tie  of  empire.  How  this  county  bowled,  how  that 
one  batted,  rallied  them,  as  experts,  to  a  sense  of  a 
common  interest  in  life. 

George  now  called  for  a  song,  and  though  this  re- 
quest was  evidently  welcome,  compliance  was  de- 
layed by  the  usual  sheepish  unwillingness  to  face  the 
company.  One  or  two  cleared  their  throats,  and 
pondered,  and  gave  it  up,  professing  to  have  forgot- 
ten the  words.  The  landlord  at  length  came  to  the 
rescue  with  a  contrivance  expressly  designed  for 
emergencies  of  this  sort,  and  superfluously  intro- 
duced by  Fawke  as  the  "  grammerphone, "  perhaps 
with  the  thought  of  his  own  educational  deficiencies 
still  running  in  his  head.  The  function  of  this  most 
dismal  instrument  seemed  to  be  to  make  the  min- 
strelsy of  the  music-hall  accessible  to  the  rural  dis- 
tricts. The  landlord  adjusted  the  slides,  not  without 
difficulty,  and  touched  the  springs,  not  without  mis- 
takes. At  length,  after  several  false  starts,  the  thing 
was  delivering  a  metrical  pleasantry  on  the  subject 
of  paper  collars,  in  a  far-off  tone  which  suggested 
a  revel  of  cockney  gnomes  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
Yet  nothing  could  have  been  at  once  more  impres- 
sively unearthly  in  its  metallic  travesty  of  the  hu- 
man voice,  nor  more  commonplace  in  its  general 
drift. 

It  was  as  disappointing  in  this  respect  as  those 
sittings  of  unlettered  mediums  in  which  the  sages 
of  history  revisit  our  sphere  to  talk  the  wisdom  of 

'59 


The  Yellow  Van 

the  copy-book  in  the  vernacular  of  Whitechapel.  It 
left  the  company  cold,  but  not  for  this  reason.  They 
felt  that  it  was  dull,  while  they  silently  acknowledged 
that  it  was  perhaps  too  fashionable  for  their  com- 
prehension. In  short,  they  put  it  in  the  same  cate- 
gory as  the  selections  from  Wagner  at  village  con- 
certs, performed  by  distinguished  amateurs.  In  the 
one  instance,  as  in  the  other,  they  were  much  too 
well-bred  to  complain.  The  judicious  landlord  saved 
them  the  trouble  by  covering  the  machine  once  more 
with  its  oil-cloth,  and  stimulating  Bangs  to  harmony 
with  the  offer  of  a  drink. 

The  poacher  accordingly  plunged  headlong  into  a 
patriotic  ditty,  inspired  by  the  war,  with  a  burden 
of  "England,  be  proud  of  your  boys  in  brown." 
The  choice  of  a  color  was  but  a  tacit  confession  of 
the  poet's  inability  to  make  khaki  subservient  to  the 
purposes  of  his  art.  Whatever  its  faults  in  composi- 
tion and  execution,  this  was  at  least  a  vital  deliver- 
ance, and  it  had  the  happiest  effect.  The  whole 
parlor  joined  heartily  in  the  chorus,  and  Fawke, 
in  particular,  grew  manifestly  reckless,  as  though 
meditating  an  immediate  start  for  the  front.  The 
ice  thus  broken,  Mr.  Grimber  next  undertook  to 
oblige. 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  new,"  he  said,  "but  if  you 
care  for  one  of  the  old  uns,  here  's  something  that 
my  old  father  learned  from  his  father,  who  was  a 
volunteer  in  the  great  French  war.  It  's  about  Na- 
poleon Bonyparte." 

An  old  song,  and  a  song  that  might  contain  some 

160 


The  Yellow  Van 

mention  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo!  Nothing  more 
was  needed  to  bespeak  their  most  reverent  attention. 
It  opened  as  follows : 

"Come,  all  you  young  men,  beware  of  ambition, 
Or  else,  in  course  o'  time,  you  may  alter  your 

condition. 

Oh,  think  upon  'is  woes  who  was  born  to  be  a  yero, 
And  now  is  gone  to  end  his  days  in  the  isle  of  St. 
'Eleno." 

There  were  twelve  verses,  and  they  traced  a  career 
of  misguided  ambition  from  the  cradle  almost  to 
the  grave.  In  the  treatment  of  it,  and  particularly 
in  Mr.  Grimber's  rendering,  this  dazzling  but  irregu- 
lar genius  became  an  awful  warning  for  the  rising 
manhood  of  Sloeum  Parva  of  the  dangers  of  dis- 
content with  their  lot.  He  seemed  to  walk  the  earth 
again  to  impress  upon  them  the  great  truth  that  if 
they  were  not  exceedingly  careful  they  might  cease  to 
be  British  boors.  He  had  probably  served  the  same 
purpose  for  their  grandsires,  and  so  had  not  lived 
altogether  in  vain.  The  song  was  thus  of  real  social 
and  political  significance  in  its  solemn  echoes  of  the 
teaching  of  the  catechism  in  regard  to  contentment 
with  the  state  of  life  to  which  we  are  called.  The 
implied  rebuke  seemed  especially  to  come  home  to 
Mr.  Fawke,  with  his  newly  awakened  desires  for  civil 
and  even  for  military  distinction.  He  sat  silent,  as 
though  meditating,  with  thankfulness,  his  exceed- 
ingly narrow  escape  of  a  throne. 

161 


The  Yellow  Van 

They  were  at  the  height  of  their  rude  revel  when 
a  child  from  the  village  came  in  and  handed  a  letter 
to  George.  It  had  just  been  left  at  his  cottage,  and 
the  messenger  who  had  brought  it  from  the  agent's 
room  at  the  castle  said  it  was  pressing.  So  few  let- 
ters, pressing  or  other,  came  to  them  that  all  present 
boded  something  momentous,  especially  when  they 
saw  the  young  man,  as  he  opened  it,  turn  deathly 
pale.  He  read  it  again  in  the  perfect  silence,  dropped 
it,  and  staggered  forth  without  a  word.  One  of  them 
picked  it  up  and  without  ceremony  read  it  aloud  for 
the  benefit  of  the  company.  It  was  a  formal  notice 
to  quit,  on  the  ground  that  the  cottage  was  wanted 
for  a  new  laborer  on  the  estate.  They  all  realized  its 
dire  significance  just  as  fully  as  George.  It  meant 
ruin.  Without  Slocum  as  a  center,  his  little  business 
would  be  nothing;  and  for  a  man  under  the  ban  of 
the  castle  there  would  be  no  other  footing  anywhere 
throughout  the  countryside.  "A  fancied  summat 
was  comin',"  said  Job,  "when  A  see  the  agent  makin' 
a  ugly  face," 


162 


XVIII 


ITHIN  a  fortnight  of  that  day,  so 
swiftly  was  it  done,  George  Herion 
was  in  London,  earning  his  living 
at  the  dock-side. 

Thus  the  blow  fell.  There  was 
the  agent 's  decree  of  expulsion,  for 
such  it  was,  and  no  valid  appeal. 
The  duchess,  their  one  friend,  was  in  town,  amid  the 
whirl  of  her  first  season,  as  effectually  out  of  reach 
as  Arcturus.  If  she  had  been  at  their  door,  they 
might  never  have  dared  raise  a  voice  to  her.  The 
duke 's  agent  was  the  duke,  the  duke  was  the  duchess, 
in  their  simple  minds.  It  was  all  one  great  machinery 
of  fate  which  crushed  them  at  their  appointed  time. 
To  those  immortals  what  were  the  likes  of  them? 

Yet  the  mothers  counseled  submission,  after  the 
wont  of  their  kind.  "Do  'ee  now  'umble  yourself," 
said  George's.  "Tell  un  you  be  sorry-loike  if  ye 
ha'  done  amiss.  It  's  the  mother  as  nussed  ye  tell 
ye  so.  Do,  like  a  good  boy." 

"I  '11  die  fust,  mammy,"  said  the  bad  boy,  the 
form  of  the  appeal  taking  him  back  to  the  time  when 
he  drew  his  life  from  her  breast.  "If  I  went  to 
heel,  I  'd  only  get  another  kick  for  my  pains.  What 
did  Kisbye  sack  me  for?  Nothin'.  What  have  I 

163 


The  Yellow  Van 

done  sence?  Nothin'  again.  Ask  Peascod  if  I  ain't 
always  kep'  within  the  act  o'  Parli'ment." 

The  poor  old  things  looked  at  Rose,  as  though 
urging  her  to  back  them.  But  she  shook  her  head. 
It  was  the  second  of  her  two  moods,  the  dogged  one. 
"I  '11  stand  by  what  'e  does,"  was  all  she  said. 

"Well,  not  to  'umble  hisself,  deary,"  pleaded  her 
mother.  ' '  P  'r  'aps  'e  could  get  a  cottage  somewheres 
else,  an'  not  lose  the  bezness.  He  's  so  cliver.  Oh, 
the  bezness,  the  b'ezness!"  And  the  two  mourners 
keened  in  chorus  over  the  good  thing  dead  and  gone. 

"It  's  no  use,"  said  George.  "I  couldn't  get  a 
foothold  anywheres  within  ten  mile  of  Allonby;  an' 
if  I  did,  they  'd  hunt  me  down.  With  their  mark 
ag'in'  you,  you  're  a  lost  man." 

"He  's  goin'  for  a  sojer,  see  if  he  ain't!"  cried 
the  old  woman.  "Oh,  cruel,  cruel!  an'  with  my  gal 
for  's  wife ! ' ' 

Even  the  daughter  paled. 

"I  'm  goin'  to  London,"  said  George,  kissing 
Eose,  "an'  my  gal  's  goin'  wi'  me.  Will  that  dew?" 

"London!"  wailed  the  desperate  old  creature. 
"An'  what  '11  ye  make  there,  ye  silly  sheep— that 
I  should  call  you  so !  What  '11  ye  make  there  ? ' ' 

"Make  my  fortune,  mother.  What  I  've  done 
once  with  a  bezness  I  can  do  again.  That  's  the  place 
to  win  the  brass.  That  's  the  place  where  every- 
body 's  free." 

The  neighbors  dropped  in  to  condole.  "What 
I  've  noticed  all  ma  little  loife,"  said  Job  Gurt,  "is 
this:  Speak  yer  mind,  an'  you  get  the  sack.  You 

164 


The  Yellow  Van 

don't  get  it  for  speakin'  yer  mind ;  you  get  it,  that  's 
all.  But  it  's  just  as  good  as  though  you  got  itt' 
other  way.  D'  ye  think  they  '11  chalk  up  more  beer 
for  'ee  at  the  Knuckle  o '  Veal  because  you  're  what  's 
called  a  victim?  'T  ain't  loikely.  A  wouldn't  do 
it  mysen.  Publican  's  got  to  live.  My  old  feyther 
told  me  that  when  I  wur  a  boy,  an'  I  've  found  it 
roight." 

An  invincible  terror  of  their  betters,  as  beings 
mighty  to  hurt,  was  the  note  with  most  of  them. 
There  was  the  life  of  habit,  with  all  its  drawbacks, 
and  how  change  it  without  risk  ?  ' '  When  ma  missus 
went  off  for  a  week  last  Easter  to  see  her  mother, 
I  missed  her  tongue.  A  take  ma  Bible  oath  on  it,  so 
I  did.  When  she  'ad  'er  say  I  was  payin'  as  I  went 
on."  It  was  Job  still. 

"You  'd  be  a  good  plucked  un,  even  if  you  was 
a  leaseholder,  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Grimber. 
"People  can't  afford  to  'ave  so  much  sperrit  when 
their  rates  is  included  in  the  rent. ' ' 

Mr.  Bascomb  slipped  two  sovereigns  into  Rose's 
hand,  and  then  went  home,  with  a  sigh,  to  read  ' '  The 
City  of  God."  Mr.  Raif  called,  as  in  duty  bound, 
but  it  was  only  to  shake  his  head.  The  domestic 
chaplain  had  caught  George  in  the  very  act  of  his 
defiant  utterance  as  to  making  his  fortune  in  Lon- 
don. He  took  leave  of  the  outcast  meekly,  yet  as 
one  giving  thanks  that  he  was  rid  of  a  knave. 

The  little  home  was  broken  up.  The  mothers  took 
most  of  the  furniture  to  store  for  happier  times; 
the  rest  was  sent  to  town.  The  business  had  no  sell- 

165 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  value,  and  it  was  left  to  perish.  The  two  out- 
casts went  forth  quietly.  The  omens  were  not  all 
against  them.  It  was  a  chilling  spring,  yet  the 
blackthorn  flowered;  a  redstart  sang  them  farewell. 
But  for  this  they  might  have  lacked  attention,  the 
neighbors  having  been  specially  canvassed  by  Grim- 
ber,  with  a  view  to  a  display  of  masterly  inactivity 
within  doors.  It  was  thus,  in  its  lack  of  publicity, 
as  in  other  respects,  a  sort  of  expulsion  from  Eden, 
with  Peascod's  walking-stick  as  a  poor  substitute 
for  the  flaming  sword.  They  went  forth  to  keep 
London  the  largest  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world,  and 
rural  England,  in  a  sense,  the  smallest  of  all  the 
countries.  None  but  old  Spurr  came  to  bear  a  hand 
with  the  traps,  which  George  was  himself  to  wheel 
to  the  station  for  transport  by  a  later  train.  Few 
as  these  were,  the  little  hand-cart  would  not  hold  all 
of  them,  and  George  looked  round  for  a  lift. 

It  came  at  a  turn  of  the  road.  The  yellow  van 
hove  in  sight,  not  in  marching  order  at  present,  but 
merely  bound  for  the  station,  itself  to  take  train  to 
a  distant  center  for  the  opening  of  the  spring  cam- 
paign. Only  a  carter's  lad  was  in  charge  this  time. 
The  lecturer,  the  wife,  the  baby,  the  posters  were 
to  join  at  a  later  stage,  and,  for  the  moment,  the 
vehicle  looked  all  forlorn.  The  driver  wanted  but  a 
word  to  induce  him  to  hoist  the  bundle  on  the  tail- 
board; and  with  a  "gee  up,"  he  took  his  place  be- 
hind the  little  cart.  The  two  old  grannies,  yet  to 
be,  hid  their  faces  with  their  aprons  and  ran  indoors. 
The  same  thought  had  come  to  both  of  them  in  a 

1 66 


The  Yellow  Van 

flash.  It  looked  exactly  like  a  funeral  procession— 
fourth-class. 

They  gravitated  toward  the  east  end  of  the  great 
city;  and,  while  waiting  to  turn  himself  round,  the 
young  fellow  took  his  unskilled  strength  into  the 
market  and  found  a  job  at  the  dock-side.  At  the 
sight  of  their  dismal  lodging  in  dismal  Poplar,  Rose 
wavered  for  a  moment  in  utter  heartbreak,  and 
would  have  written  to  her  august  friend.  But 
George  sternly  forbade,  strong  in  his  confidence  of 
righting  himself,  grim  in  his  disdain.  Nobody  was 
to  know  of  this  fleeting  experience  of  discomfort; 
even  the  mothers  were  to  be  spared  details.  Rose 
was  nothing  loath  on  that  point.  Her  peasant  pride 
revolted  at  the  thought  of  the  admission  of  even 
temporary  failure.  All  would  come  right  so  very 
soon,  and  then  she  and  George  would  return  to 
Slocum  in  state,  wearing  new  Sunday  clothes. 

The  duchess  heard  of  it,  for  all  that,  if  only  in 
the  postscript  of  a  belated  letter: 

"  Your  young  friends  Rose  and  George  are  now 
your  neighbors  in  town.  Herion,  I  hear,  has  rather 
lost  his  head  with  some  notion  of  making  his  fortune 
in  London,  and,  on  the  strength  of  it,  or  perhaps  we 
had  better  say  the  weakness,  has  been  disrespectful 
to  the  agent.  Anyhow,  he  has  taken  himself  off  with 
his  pretty  little  wife." 

It  was  Mary  reporting  the  reports  of  Mr.  Raif. 
So,  notoriously,  is  history  made.  But  the  squire's 

167 


The  Yellow  Van 

daughter  had  enough  to  think  of  just  now  to  excuse 
her  from  trying  to  get  her  information  at  first 
hand.  In  spite  of  the  drawbridge  at  Liddicot  Hall, 
many  worries  and  anxieties  had  crossed  the  moat, 
and  father  and  daughter  agreed  that  all  thought  of 
a  season  in  town  was  out  of  the  question.  With 
Tom  at  the  front,  they  lacked  the  spirit  for  gaiety. 
They  lacked  even  the  means,  after  the  heavy  pecu- 
niary sacrifices  entailed  by  his  outfit  and  departure. 

So  Augusta  read  her  postscript,  not  thinking  there 
was  very  much  in  it,  and  went  on  with  her  season. 
It  was  a  sad  season,— the  shadow  of  the  war  was 
over  it,— though  the  devotees  of  pleasure  managed 
to  pick  a  bit  here  and  there,  like  some  sick  navvy 
at  his  third  helping  of  rabbit-pie. 

Yet  even  they  had  their  trials.  There  was  always 
that  weekly  picture-book  of  the  dead  in  the  illus- 
trated papers,  with  its  portraits  of  the  poor  lads  who 
had  been  laid  low  on  the  veldt.  The  war  seemed  a 
monster  that  devoured  youth.  There  they  were  in 
all  the  smartness  of  mufti  or  of  uniform,  beardless, 
many  of  them  without  the  barber's  art,  clear-eyed, 
ingenuous,  and,  for  all  the  manly  glory  of  their 
sacrifice,  sheer  mothers'  boys.  Yet  the  customary 
things  had  to  be  done,  for  gaiety  is  one  of  the  public 
services,  like  the  water  and  the  gas.  When  the  pub- 
lic courage  seemed  to  faint,  the  venerable  Queen 
came  out  and  was  driven  through  the  cheering 
streets,  guarded,  tended,  as  well  as  attended,  even 
in  her  carriage— weary  as  with  the  memory  of  in- 
numerable pageants  and  with  the  sense  of  the  vanity 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  things,  almost  immobile,  bowing,  if  one  may  say 
so,  mainly  from  the  eyes. 

Incessantly  they  pitied  themselves,  especially 
when  they  went  to  bed  without  a  headache,  and  they 
left  town  for  Easter  with  the  most  sincere  conviction 
that  they  needed  a  thorough  rest.  Strengthened  and 
refreshed,  they  came  back  for  a  great  dinner-party 
at  the  duke's,  a  court  concert,  and  a  thousand  and 
one  nothings  which  left  them  thoroughly  exhausted 
by  Whitsuntide.  There  were  no  court  balls— for  one 
reason,  because,  with  eight  thousand  of  her  Majesty's 
Guards  in  South  Africa,  there  were  no  dancers. 
There  were  still  enough  soldiers  left,  however,  to 
make  a  brave  show  for  the  trooping  of  the  colors  for 
the  Queen's  birthday,  and  a  braver,  if  possible,  for 
the  regimental  dinners  of  a  later  stage.  The  first 
meet  of  the  coaching  club  was  pretty.  The  duke 
had  promised  to  drive  his  own  coach,  but  at  the  last 
moment  he  had  to  confide  Augusta  to  another  chariot- 
eer. He  was  engaged  in  finishing  a  weighty  literary 
deliverance  on  the  causes  of  the  depopulation  of 
rural  England,  to  which  he  had  been  urged  by  the 
editor  of  a  fashionable  review. 

A  debutante  is  the  imperious  need  of  every  season, 
of  such  a  season  above  all.  Augusta  was  the  nine 
days'  wonder,  and,  human  nature  being  what  it  is, 
that  was  enough  for  her.  London  was  new  to  her; 
she  had  but  passed  through  it  on  her  arrival  in  Eng- 
land. Her  self-possession  was  much  admired  in  the 
circumstances.  The  truth  is,  she  found  it  not  by 
seeking  for  it,  but  by  a  lucky  accident.  She  was 

169 


The  Yellow  Van 

so  intensely  interested  in  what  passed  that  she  was 
often  able  to  forget  her  own  share  in  it.  She  re- 
sembled those  favored  persons  on  the  Elizabethan 
stage  who  were  at  once  parts  of  the  audience  and 
parts  of  the  spectacle.  Often  when  she  was  the  real 
center  of  attraction  in  a  group  she  was  eagerly  and 
interestedly  aware  of  everybody  in  it  but  herself, 
and  so  took  it  with  a  quiet  absorption  of  curiosity 
which  served  her  as  well  as  the  hardihood  bred  of  a 
dozen  campaigns.  Her  first  drawing-room  was  a 
kind  of  waking  dream  in  which  she  was  mainly 
busy  with  the  memories  of  a  notable  tale  of  fairy- 
land read  years  ago  by  the  fire  in  a  ranch. 

There  were  tableaux  at  the  Great  Opera  House. 
It  was  all  society  under  a  hat— a  big  hat,  of  course. 
Society  filled  the  bill  in  every  sense;  the  humblest 
supers  on  the  stage  were  personages,  so  were  the 
very  gods  in  the  gallery.  Royalty  swept  the  circle 
from  its  box.  It  was  a  Mask  of  Peace  and  War,— 
something  for  a  charity,— with  the  colonies  offering 
toffy  to  mama,  and  the  massed  bands  of  the  Guards 
—the  poor  Guards  were  nothing  but  band,  with  all 
the  men  at  the  front— blowing  "Rule  Britannia  " 
toward  the  universe.  Public  enthusiasm  took  its 
temperature  from  the  evening  papers.  There  were 
good  telegrams  that  night,  and  the  house  felt  good 
along  with  them. 

After  the  entertainment  came  supper  at  the  res- 
taurant. "When  Augusta  saw  what  a  pretty  sight 
it  was  down-stairs  she  canceled  the  order  for  a  pri- 
vate room.  A  few  of  the  tables  were  perfect  con- 
stellations. But  it  was  very  mixed,  and  there  were 

I/O 


The  Yellow  Van 

dreadful-looking  people  here  and  there,  guzzling  like 
trusts  at  feeding-time,  and  positively  trying  to  make 
believe  they  were  hungry.  This  was  finance.  Kisbye 
was  among  them,  and  he  had  the  impudence  to  try 
to  catch  the  duke's  eye!  What  a  mixture  it  was, 
and  no  mixing — home  and  foreign  nobility,  South 
African  millionaires,  mincing  stage  misses.  Dying 
is  about  the  only  unaffected  thing  in  some  lives. 
Everybody  that  was  anybody  in  any  line— that 
seemed  to  be  the  rule:  a  collection  of  ''bests,"  even 
in  depravity.  It  gave  one  a  sense  of  power,  in  a  way. 
Here,  at  least,  were  all  the  people  who  had  found 
out  how  to  do  things— even  those  who  could  only 
talk  cleverly  about  doing  them ;  for  the  distinguished 
author  was  not  wanting,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Even 
authors  must  eat ;  and  society  seethes  something  bet- 
ter than  pottage  for  the  sons  of  the  prophets.  The 
Prince  had  won  the  Derby  a  second  time,  and  the 
duke  was  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Jockey  Club  in 
honor  of  the  occasion.  The  duchess  received  her  Ma- 
jesty's commands  for  a  performance  of  opera  at 
Windsor  Castle. 

In  a  letter  Augusta  gave  an  account  of  these 
gaieties  with  this  postscript,  in  answer  to  Mary's: 

"I  think  the  Herions  have  made  a  mistake,  but 
we  shall  see.  I  like  his  pluck,  all  the  same.  Good 
night,  Mary.  I  'm  writing  this  before  turning  in. 
I  shall  have  a  surprise  for  you  soon.  It  will  be  a 
surprise  visit— a  stranger!  male  sex!  There,  you 
must  do  the  rest  for  yourself.  Now  get  a  wink  of 
sleep,  if  you  can." 

171 


XIX 

IR  HENRY  LIDDICOT  is  out  of 
sorts  this  morning,  as  he  sits  at 
breakfast  with  his  daughter  in  his 
moated  hall.  He  has  had  a  kind  of 
threatening  letter  from  a  money- 
lender, and  not  his  money-lender, 
but  the  other  man 's.  The  other  man  is  his  son.  Tom, 
it  seems,  has  accepted  accommodation  to  gentlemen 
about  town  as  generously  as  it  is  usually  offered  in 
the  initial  stage.  He  is  deeply  involved,  in  fact ;  and 
the  money-lender,  who  signs  himself  Claude  Vava- 
sour, thinks  that  the  squire  may  like  to  know.  The 
squire  does  not  like  to  know  in  the  least. 

"I  thought  I  'd  cleared  him  nicely  before  he  went 
out,"  he  says.    "I  call  it  sly." 
"No,  no,  father— not  that!" 
"Who  is  this  fellow  with  a  name  out  of  a  playbill? 
And  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? " 

Mary  sighs  at  the  thought  of  another  appeal  to 
the  family  solicitors.  It  involves  a  confession  of  a 
most  embarrassed  state  of  affairs.  Messrs.  Stall- 
brass,  Stallbrass,  Fruhling,  Jenkins  &  Prothero— 
where  do  family  solicitors  get  these  appalling  collo- 
cations?—are  a  sort  of  outer  conscience  for  the 
squire,  and  he  approaches  them  in  his  difficulties 

172 


The  Yellow  Van 

like  a  naughty  Hoy.  The  girl  knows  what  those  dif- 
ficulties are  even  better  than  her  father.  His  poor 
eyesight  has  long  made  him  dependent  on  her  for 
clerical  work. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  father?" 

"Put  the  letter  in  the  fire." 

"And  Tom?  Remember  he  's  not  here  to  look  af- 
ter himself." 

"I  'm  tired  of  looking  after  him— mess,  clubs, 
turf,  life  ab'out  town— there  's  no  end  to  it.  Why 
did  n  't  I  send  him  into  a  marching  regiment  ?  What 
are  you  huddling  up  there,  Polly?" 

It  was  Tom's  little  bills  for  his  late  equipment  for 
the  front  as  an  officer  of  a  crack  regiment :  luncheon- 
baskets,  cases  of  wines  and  spirits,  guns,  polo-clubs, 
golf-tools,  a  truly  edifying  variety  of  fancy  shirts 
all  consigned  as  "urgent  military  stores." 

' '  Ah, ' '  he  said,  as  though  mollified  in  some  curious 
way,  "it  's  a  dearer  trade  than  it  was  in  my  day. 
March  of  progress,  I  suppose."  But  he  said  no 
more. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while,  broken  only  by  the 
chipping  of  an  egg-shell. 

"I  gave  him  all  he  wanted,"  he  added  presently, 
"and  ready  money,  too.  I  don't  see  why  he  should 
spring  all  this  private  debt  upon  me.  The  land 
won't  stand  it." 

You  never  could  answer  for  the  squire's  mental 
machinery  as  an  implement  of  research.  Perhaps 
somewhere  in  the  background  of  his  mind  was  an 
idea  of  the  burdens  upon  an  acre  of  Liddicot  land 


The  Yellow  Van 

as  they  had  been  accumulated  by  the  slow  growth  of 
custom  in  the  course  of  centuries.  So  much  may  be 
conjectured,  for  he  murmured:  "There  's  you  and 
me,  and  Tom,  and  your  Aunt  Dorothy,  and  your 
Aunt  Elizabeth  "—and  with  that  he  seemed  to  give 
it  up. 

An  expert  might  have  followed  up  the  clue  in  this 
way:  Not  only  did  all  the  persons  named  expect  to 
reap  and  garner  the  acre  for  their  private  needs: 
there  were  the  poor  relatives,  as  well  as  the  entailed 
ones— a  venerable  second  cousin  or  two  in  foreign 
boarding-houses  to  whom  the  squire  was  "good." 
Further  claims  were  represented  by  the  pensioned 
servants  and  other  dependents,  one  of  them  an  old 
fellow  in  the  next  cottage  to  Skett's,  who  had  been 
surly  to  all  and  several  for  the  last  fifteen  years 
of  bedridden  impotence  on  the  strength  of  his  hav- 
ing carried  the  ferrets  in  his  pocket  when  the  squire 
went  ratting  as  a  boy.  Then  came  the  farmer  and 
his  laborers,  with  their  respective  wives,  children, 
and  hangers-on,  according  to  degree,  who  naturally 
expected  to  live  by  the  land.  Each  claimed  his  share, 
big  or  little.  This  was  only  the  pure  ideal  of  the  ar- 
rangement. Some  got  the  share  only  now  and  then ; 
others  never  got  it  at  all.  The  fractions,  as  they 
stood  in  the  scheme  of  benevolent  muddle,  always 
overran  the  total.  The  acre  wouldn't  go  round. 
The  attempt  to  make  it  behave  itself  was  the  stand- 
ing puzzle  of  the  patriarch's  life.  The  squire  and 
his  son  and  daughter  of  course  had  to  come  first. 
He  was  sorry  for  those  who  came  last  and  he  thought 
the  government  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  itself. 

174 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Couldn't  we  cut  down  the  living  expenses, 
dad?" 

"Be  reasonable,  my  dear.  We  used  to  be  almost 
a  first-class  house ;  we  're  hardly  a  third  now.  How 
many  people  have  we  about  the  place  ? ' ' 

" Quite  fifty." 

' '  Thought  as  much, ' '  he  said,  with  a  quiet  chuckle. 
"Cut  it  down  if  you  can.  We  're  undermanned  in 
stablemen  and  keepers ;  we  have  n  't  a  single  war- 
rener.  Where  are  you  going  to  begin— on  the  home 
farm?" 

"  Do  we  want  all  those  mechanics  idling  about  ? ' ' 

"All  right;  sack  your  bricklayer,  carpenter, 
painter,  and  wheelwright,  and  get  it  jobbed  outside. 
But  take  care,  Polly,  or  you  '11  have  the  moat  in  the 
cellars  one  day,  if  not  the  cellars  in  the  moat." 

"Still-" 

"I  gave  up  the  deer-park  before  you  were  born," 
he  pleaded.  "Reason— that  's  all  I  want.  Half  our 
gardeners  are  boys.  We  've  hardly  got  anything 
under  glass.  But  I  'm  not  exactly  going  to  the  green- 
grocer for  my  peaches,  for  all  that." 

"Well,  father,  but-" 

"And  I  don't  think  you  'd  like  to  put  down  the 
laundry,  Mary,  with  all  these  new-fashioned  com- 
plaints about.  Come,  now,  let  's  stick  to  something 
or  give  up  the  game. ' ' 

It  was  his  way  of  looking  at  life.  He  had  brought 
up  his  son  on  it.  Some  such  thought  was  in  Mary's 
mind. 

"Then  I  'm  afraid  Mr.  Vavasour  is  inevitable," 
was  all  she  said. 

175 


The  Yellow  Van 

"No,  no;  I  don't  go  so  far  as  that.  Sorry  I  'm  a 
magistrate :  I  should  like  to  put  him  in  the  moat. ' ' 

"He  'd  walk  still,  father.  It  would  only  be  a 
second  ghost  at  Liddicot." 

"It  's  Tom's  extravagance,"  he  began.  But  then 
he  thought  of  his  boy  at  the  front,  and  his  anger 
melted  away.  Such  a  good  fellow,  such  a  nice,  manly 
sort  of  lad— a  first-class  athlete,  the  best  gentleman 
jockey  in  the  county,  so  simple  and  straight  with 
his  breezy  belief  that  youth  was  the  season  for  en- 
joyment and  that  the  chief  business  of  his  elders  was 
to  push  him  on  without  any  exertion  on  his  part ! 
Only  wanting  everything  he  had  a  mind  to,  and 
prone  to  measure  himself  with  the  best. 

"It  's  my  fault  as  much  as  his,"  he  mused.  "I 
ought  to  go  to  headquarters  and  give  him  a  lift.  I 
know  one  or  two  at  the  War  Office— used  to,  at  any 
rate.  It  's  a  mischief  we  can't  entertain  a  bit  in 
town  this  season.  And  yet  it  's  nobody 's  fault,  after 
all.  It  's  the  state  of  the  country.  "What  are  you 
to  do  with  a  wretched  government  that  won't  look 
after  the  landed  interest?" 

He  took  up  a  newspaper,  but  it  seemed  only  a  fresh 
cause  of  annoyance,  for,  with  the  exclamation  ' '  Gad- 
flies!" he  threw  it  down  again. 

Mary  caught  it  as  it  fell.  They  were  attacking 
his  precious  boy,  by  implication,  in  a  scathing  dia- 
tribe on  "Our  Military  Dunces,"  provoked  by  some 
fresh  blunder  at  the  front.  These  unfortunate  per- 
sons, it  seemed,  had  learned  nothing  of  their  trade, 
and  consequently  they  had  nothing  to  forget.  The 

176 


The  Yellow  Van 

particular  insect  in  question  had  dipped  its  stingf 
in  a  recent  report  on  military  education,  and  it  left 
venom  with  every  wound.  Sandhurst  was  a  mere 
survival  of  the  practical  joke;  the  cadets  at  Wool- 
wich took  their  lessons  of  application  from  a  muzzle- 
loading  howitzer  without  a  carriage ;  even  Aldershot 
was  nearly  as  bad.  The  military  geography,  in  spite 
of  the  manuals,  was  child's  play.  It  was  sleepy 
hollow  everywhere;  ignorance  was  positively  wor- 
shiped throughout  the  army. 

The  poor  girl  dropped  the  paper  in  her  turn.  A 
tear  trickled  down  her  cheek, — for  Tom's  sake, — 
and  she  wished  she  could  horsewhip  somebody.  It 
was  a  new  and  ghastly  light  on  the  absent  hero's 
contempt  of  book  work,  and  his  amiable  derision,  a 
grace  in  itself,  at  the  expense  of  the  fellow  that 
''swots." 

"It  's  a  lie!"  thundered  the  squire.  "That  lad's 
education,  first  and  last,  cost  me  seven  thousand 
pound."  He  was  not  grumbling  now;  he  was  only 
protesting  against  the  attack.  He  was  proud  of  the 
cost.  It  was  part  of  his  duty  to  his  son  to  give  him 
the  best  that  money  could  buy ;  and  in  this,  of  course, 
as  in  most  things,  the  more  you  paid  the  more 
you  had.  It  was  at  the  root  of  his  philosophy  of 
life. 

"A  fine  sum,"  he  murmured,  after  a  pause,  "to 
be  at  the  mercy  of  the  pull  of  a  trigger  from  such 
as  them!" 

It  was  the  expression  of  his  disgust  at  the  thought 
of  all  that  invested  capital  in  the  graces  of  mind 
12 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  station  under  the  rifle  of  a  crouching  farmer. 
It  made  him  realize  the  cost  of  the  war. 

"And  they  pretend  he  can't  spell,  father!  Did 
you  ever  hear  such  impertinence  ?^'  The  same 
thought  was  in  both  their  minds.  It  was  all  per- 
sonal to  Tom. 

' '  All  spite— all  newspaper  spite, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Some 
of  our  little  comforts  have  reached  the  front,  I  sup- 
pose, and  they  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it.  Such 
people  never  can.  Just  see  what  they  say  about  the 
pursuing  column." 

It  was  a  mocking  account  of  a  so-called  flying 
column,  hampered  with  portable  beds,  wash-stands, 
and  what  not,  including  tents  of  a  cool  green  to 
baffle  the  sun.  The  column  flew  all  the  same,  ap- 
parently under  the  influence  of  a  terrible  colonel 
who  could  put  up  with  a  dog-biscuit  for  ration,  and 
who  sent  all  the  finery  to  the  rear.  Tom's  regiment 
was  actually  named,  with  the  additional  fact  that  at 
the  end  of  the  day  the  mess  still  managed  to  appear 
in  some  approach  to  suitable  evening  wear. 

"That  'a  Tom  all  over,"  said  the  old  man.  "He  'd 
be  lost  without  his  change  at  dinner-time.  But 
green  's  going  too  far, ' '  he  added  reflectively.  "It  's 
a  bit  foppish,  if  you  ask  me." 

Some  misgiving  appeared  to  enter  the  girl 's  mind. 
She  echoed  him  no  more.  There  was  none  in  the 
squire's.  "I  know  that  sort,"  he  said,  harking  back 
to  the  abstemious  colonel.  "Promotion  from  the 
ranks,  eh  ?  All  done  to  curry  favor.  I  suppose  he  's 
one  of  K 's  lot." 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  force  of  manly  indignation  could  no  further 

go.  K was  that  tremendous  figure,  hated  of  the 

squire  and  his  kind  for  his  unseemly  passion  for 
the  rigor  of  the  game  of  war— a  passion  that  threat- 
ened to  spoil  the  army  as  a  good  thing  for  men  of 
family.  It  was  the  old  ideal  of  military  service 
perishing  under  the  rude  shocks  of  the  new  men— 
the  men  who  were  for  bringing  a  gentlemanlike  call- 
ing back  to  its  old  realities  of  berserker  fury  and 
berserker  sweat.  The  fury  was  all  very  well  in  its 
season.  It  was  so  easy  to  die  in  that  game,  as  in 
tiger-shooting,  or,  for  that  matter,  in  riding  to 
hounds;  but  it  was  disgusting  to  think  of  having 
to  run  the  risk  without  the  relief  of  the  elementary 
comforts  of  home. 

Mary  was  silent  still.  She  thought  of  a  passage 
in  one  of  Tom's  letters  in  which  that  amiable  youth 
had  related,  with  such  spelling  as  he  could  muster, 
an  adventure  of  his  own  with  the  personage  in  ques- 
tion. A  group  of  officers  of  Tom's  regiment  at  Cape 
Town,  on  easy  leave,  were  laying  themselves  out  for 
a  round  of  social  pleasures  while  waiting  for  "an- 
other flutter"  at  the  front.  The  leave  had  been  had 

for  the  asking  before  K arrived  to  take  matters 

in  hand,  and  the  distraction  of  the  hour  was  a  game 
of  pool.  To  the  assembled  heroes  enters  suddenly  a 
grim  figure  in  khaki,  colossal,  with  little  to  dis- 
tinguish his  rank  but  his  commanding  port  and  a 
something  in  the  solemn  glare  of  his  eye  that  strikes 

awe  into  the  beholder.  It  is  K himself,  come 

down  in  a  night  and  a  day  of  incessant  traveling  to 

I79 


The  Yellow  Van 

whip  up  stragglers.  ''What  are  you  doing  here, 
gentlemen?"  "On  leave,  sir,  from  the  front." 
"Get  back  to  the  front  by  the  next  train,  or  home 
by  the  next  steamer. "  ' '  Pretty  cool,  and  for  a  chap 
in  the  Engineers,  Polly!"  said  Tom.  "Guess  how 
he  's  loved." 

It  was  not  that  Tom  was  a  milksop ;  he  could  be 
as  hard  as  nails  on  occasion.  But  he  thought  the 
little  relaxations  were  due  to  his  position,  and  he  was 
hard  to  balk  of  them.  He  shared  his  father's  con- 
tempt for  the  status  of  the  enemy,— mere  field- folk 
who  took  their  coats  off  to  it,— and  he  'd  be  hanged 
if  he  was  going  to  go  dirty  just  because  he  was 
fighting  them.  He  was  born  to  cleanliness,  and  he 
was  going  to  have  it  to  his  shroud.  Had  n  't  he 
read  somewhere  that  the  Spartans  prepared  for  the 
shock  of  battle  by  dressing  their  hair,  and  were  found 
so  employed  just  before  the  shock  of  Thermopylae? 
Tom,  after  all,  was  not  so  exigent.  All  he  wanted 
was  a  brush-up  when  his  work  was  done. 

Polly  had  perhaps  taken  it  that  way  at  first, — cer- 
tainly the  heroic  figure  had  found  litle  more  favor 
in  her  eyes  than  in  Tom's,— but  gradually,  in  the 
course  of  this  troubled  morning,  with  its  themes  of 
public  and  of  private  sorrow,  it  had  been  borne  in 
upon  her  that,  after  all,  here  was  a  man.  And  look- 
ing at  the  poor  old  inheritor  of  a  name  before  her, 
and  thinking  of  the  brother  whose  faculty  and  char- 
acter were  the  only  hope  of  their  house,  it  had  come 
upon  her  that  what  the  Liddicots  wanted  was  ex- 
actly what  the  nation,  by  God's  providence,  had 

1 80 


The  Yellow  Van 

found— a  man  once  more.  Such  a  feeling  must  ever 
weigh  heavily  on  the  woman  in  societies  that  still 
compel  her  to  appear  only  by  her  champion  in  the 
lists  of  life.  Fain  would  Mary  have  mounted  to  the 
topmost  tower  of  Liddicot  to  look  for  such  a  helper, 
like  a  second  Sister  Anne. 


181 


XX 


HAT  night's  post  brought  a  wel- 
come change  of  ideas. 

"Well,  Mary,  here  's  your  sur- 
prise [wrote  Augusta].  My  little 
brother  has  arrived,  and  he  's  go- 
ing to  see  you.  If  I  know  him  at 
all,  he  '11  be  at  Liddicot  about  as  soon  as  this.  I  'm 
the  big  sister.  If  you  see  the  slightest  sign  of  his 
forgetting  it,  let  me  know.  Arthur  is  his  name.  He 
has  just  left  college,  after  doing  pretty  well  there, 
and  he  is  looking  round  to  pick  up  notions  of  things 
before  making  a  start.  He  '11  do  for  a  boy  or  a  man, 
just  as  you  choose  to  take  him.  Wasn't  it  our  am- 
bassador here  who  said  that  America  and  England 
might  do  worse  than  swap  school-boys,  now  and 
then,  just  to  give  each  other  points?  Well,  here  's 
our  sample,  for  want  of  a  better.  And  now  what 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  He  means  well,  Mary ; 
be  as  indulgent  as  you  can. 

* '  He  '11  cheer  you  up,  perhaps :  change  of  per- 
sonality is  as  stimulating  as  change  of  air.  He  will 
stay  at  Allonby,  of  course,  and  that  will  bring  him 
within  delightfully  easy  reach  of  Liddicot.  No  keep- 
ing him  in  town— impossible.  Wild  horses  could  n't 
do  it,  and  certainly  not  the  tame  variety  at  our  dis- 

182 


The  Yellow  Van 

posal.  He  's  very  keen  about  the  country  life,  and 
he  calls  poor  London  Britannia's  case  of  swelled 
head.  This  just  to  let  you  know  what  an  impudent 
young  monkey  he  is.  Be  a  mother  to  him,  Mary,  all 
the  same. 

"Keep  him  till  we  all  come  back,  which  will  be 
soon,  for  the  season  wanes.  It  will  be  easy :  you  have 
only  to  let  him  spend  his  time  with  you." 

This  was  the  answer : 

"Delighted  to  put  him  up  here.  Must  have  him, 
in  fact.  Father  says  you  can't  begin  burying  alive 
again,  at  Allonby ;  you  'd  be  five  centuries  too  late. 
Not  but  what  there  was  something  to  be  said,  etc.— 
which  I  mercifully  spare.  Who  's  to  keep  off  the 
ghosts  from  a  lone  man  in  your  marble  halls  ?  And, 
besides,  if  he  doesn't  want  society,  we  do.  Please, 
Augusta,  lend  us  the  baby  out  and  out.  We  '11  take 
such  care  of  him.  Just  wire  the  hour  of  his  train. ' ' 

Within  the  shortest  time  possible  after  that,  two 
figures  might  have  been  seen  crossing  the  moat  at 
Liddicot  in  a  dogcart.  One  of  them  was  the  man 
in  livery  with  the  reins;  the  other  was  a  stranger, 
still  early  in  the  twenties,  who  was  manifestly  an 
expected  guest.  He  was  like  the  average  guest  of 
his  years  at  an  English  house  in  being  of  fair  height 
and  of  good  muscular  development ;  also  like  him  in 
wearing  tweeds  and  a  bowler-hat,  and  in  being 
scrupulously  clean-shaven,  so  as  to  give  his  coun- 

183 


The  Yellow  Van 

tenance  the  full  benefit  of  every  Roman  line.  Beards 
are  only  for  the  ages  and  races  that  make  futile 
attempts  to  rule  mankind  with  a  poor  chin.  He 
looked  uncommonly  English  of  his  age  and  stand- 
ing ;  that  is  to  say,  uncommonly  Greek.  The  Hermes 
of  Praxiteles  might  have  come  straight  from  Ox- 
ford or  from  Harvard.  Mary  thought  he  would  do 
quite  nicely  as  she  spied  on  him  from  a  turret-win- 
dow. There  was  barely  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  so 
she  left  the  squire  to  receive  him. 

On  coming  down  she  found  them  both  ready  for 
her,  and  the  guest  greeted  her,  yet  without  a  touch 
of  familiarity,  as  though  they  had  been  friends  for 
years.  She  had  but  few  categories  for  her  fellow- 
creatures,  and  while  waiting  to  examine  this  one 
more  at  leisure  she  hurriedly  tried  them,  only  to  find 
that  they  would  not  do.  The  "thinks  so  much  of 
himself"  pigeonhole  was  a  wretched  fit ;  he  evidently 
thought  so  much  of  her  as  a  woman,  and  of  the  squire 
as  his  senior  and  host.  He  was  quietly  deferential 
without  fear— the  perfect  blend.  It  was  the  mixed 
American  system,  though  she  did  not  know  that,  in 
one  of  its  happiest  results.  He  had  been  carefully 
trained,  and  from  puppyhood  had  never  been  allowed 
to  feel  shy  at  the  sight  of  drapery.  His  manner  of 
retrieving  a  fallen  handkerchief  at  the  very  outset 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.  Later  on  he  proved  simply 
lynx-eyed  for  a  longing  or  a  need  in  this  finest  of  all 
sport,  and  he  worked  by  the  eye  of  his  keeper  rather 
than  by  the  voice.  The  type  was  wholly  new  to  the 
experience  of  the  English  girl,  and  it  fluttered  her. 

184 


The  Yellow  Van 

Being  fluttered,  she  next  feared  he  was  going  to  be 
of  the  "cynical  and  clever"  variety,  and  felt  slightly 
more  ill  at  ease.  His  youthful  candor  made  that 
as  gross  a  misfit  as  the  other.  It  was  all  done  in  a 
moment,  so  swiftly  have  we  to  jump  to  conclusions 
about  one  another  at  the  first  go-off.  She  had  only 
just  time  to  fall  back  on  the  merely  "self -possessed" 
when  it  was  time  to  move.  To  her  great  comfort, 
he  seemed  to  pop  into  that  receptacle  without  a 
crease,  and,  leaving  him  there,  she  was  free  to  ask 
for  further  news  of  the  party  in  town  as  they  went 
down-stairs. 

He  gave  it  with  a  measured  precision  of  utterance 
which  was  rather  disconcerting.  It  reminded  her 
of  something  she  had  read  about  the  speech  peculiar- 
ity of  another  of  his  countrymen.  He  seemed  dis- 
posed to  extend  the  principles  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  to  his  syllables,  and  to  leave  them  all 
free  and  equal,  without  a  trace  of  accentuation  that 
might  render  one  the  tyrant  of  the  rest.  Now  she 
began  to  wonder  if  she  should  not  shift  him  into 
the  "learned  and  severe."  But  there  was  no  present 
opportunity,  for  by  this  time  they  were  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  plain  truth  is,  he  had  the  freshness  of  a 
boy  who  happened  to  have  been  born  a  man  of  the 
world.  Having  no  pigeonhole  for  that,  she  meekly 
settled  down  to  her  soup,  while  he  entertained  the 
squire. 

For  this  was  really  the  way  of  it:  the  guest  was 
host.  Mr.  Arthur  Gooding  did  the  honors  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  gave  information,  while  seeming 

185 


The  Yellow  Van 

only  to  ask  for  it,  about  views,  soil,  proportions  of 
parkland,  plowland,  and  meadow,  which,  as  it  af- 
fected the  district  at  large,  occasionally  left  his 
senior  at  a  loss.  He  was  never  in  that  predicament 
himself.  He  took  everything  merely  as  a  new  con- 
versational crisis  to  be  dealt  with  as  it  arose. 

"I  am  so  sorry  we  have  no  one  to  meet  you,"  she 
said;  "but  there  is  hardly  a  soul  in  the  country  just 
now. ' ' 

"We  may  have  a  host  without  numbers,"  replied 
the  young  man. 

Compliments  always  troubled  Mary.  This  one, 
mild  as  it  was,  had  the  rather  singular  effect  of 
making  her  wonder  whether  there  was  anything 
wrong  with  her  hair. 

She  darted  a  swift  glance  at  him  to  find  out,  with, 
of  course,  still  greater  inconsistency,  for  only  a  mir- 
ror could  have  served  her  turn.  He  was  inquiring 
in  a  most  ingenuous  way  afiout  some  of  the  magnates 
of  the  country-side,  whose  names  he  seemed  to  have 
at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  asking  how  they  spent  their 
time. 

The  squire  seemed  embarrassed.  "Well,  let  me  see. 
Torold  's  rather  an  authority  on  church  restoration ; 
Nethercott  keeps  the  pack;  Offley  never  misses  a 
meeting  at  quarter-sessions;  Kodeland  's  very  keen 
on  model  villages.  The  prime  minister,  though  he 
does  n't  belong  to  this  part  of  the  country,  is  a  great 
man  in  the  Primrose  League,  and  came  down  to  our 
demonstration  the  other  day." 

"Anybody  in  business?" 

186 


The  Yellow  Van 

The  squire  winced.  "  There  's  no  answering  for 
people  nowadays.  Rodeland's  son,  I  believe,  does 
something  in  tea." 

"Your  prime  minister  must  be  a  very  interesting 
man,"  said  Arthur.  "I  should  like  to  meet  him." 

It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  the  sense  of  a  joke 
other  than  the  practical  that  the  squire  had  ever 
made  in  his  life.  He  laughed  heartily. 

Even  Mary  felt  inclined  to  transfer  her  guest  to 
the  "cheeky"  pigeonhole  forthwith.  But  there  was 
something  in  his  wistful  innocence  of  all  idea  of  pre- 
sumption that  made  her  hold  her  hand.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  come  abroad  for  useful  informa- 
tion, and  that  he  would  have  sought  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  on  the  spiritual  status  of  the  Peculiar 
People,  or  the  lord  chancellor  on  kindred  points  of 
interest  in  British  law,  without  any  sense  of  incon- 
gruity. Of  mortal  man,  and  that  included  his  "su- 
periors," he  knew  no  fear. 

He  seemed  faintly  apprehensive  of  something 
wrong,  though  he  still  had  to  feel  his  way  to  it.  "I 
want  to  know  everything  about  your  Primrose 
League,"  he  said.  "We  've  nothing  like  it  on  our 
side.  Your  prime  minister  would  be  the  very  man. ' ' 
It  was  said,  not  in  apology,  but  only  as  amplifying 
his  phrase. 

"You  see,  he  's  very  high  up,"  said  the  squire. 
"People  of  that  sort  are  rather  hard  to  get  at.  Be- 
sides, they  are  not  expected  to  take  an  active  part." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  young  man,  sympatheti- 
cally-" tired." 

187 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Well,  perhaps  so,"  said  the  squire.  "They 
patronize  things,  you  know." 

"I  think  I  understand— a  mikado  sitting  motion- 
less on  his  throne  to  preserve  the  peace  of  the  world." 

"They  've  had  push  enough  in  their  time." 

"Of  course,"  he  said  kindly.  "People  forget  that. 
"Why,  you  were  good  Americans  centuries  before  us. ' ' 

"Oh,  my  dear  Augusta  [wrote  Mary,  a  few  days 
after],  he  has  been  here  less  than  a  week,  and  he 
knows  more  about  us  than  some  who  have  been  here  a 
lifetime.  He  has  been  all  the  way  to  dear  old  Rands- 
ford—he  calls  it  'the  circus.'  He  has  such  funny 
terms  of  expression,  and  all  without  moving  a  muscle. 
And  what  do  you  think  he  has  found  out  atiout  it? 
That  all  the  while  they  pretended  they  didn't  want 
the  factory,  because  they  thought  it  would  displease 
the  duke,  they  were  dying  for  it,  the  artful  things ! 
You  remember  some  dreadful  London  firm  offered 
to  bring  all  its  work-people  there,  and  talked  of 
making  the  fortune  of  the  place,  and  we  only  just 
managed  to  save  them  by  threatening  to  cut  off  the 
water-power.  Well,  he  has  chapter  and  verse  for  it 
to  show  that  they  did  n  't  want  to  be  saved.  Oh,  he 
is  such  a  person  for  finding  out  things !  But  do  you 
think  it  can  be  true? 

"After  telling  us  that,  he  just  said,  'Happy  are 
the  sleepy,  for  they  shall  soon  drop  off,'  and  then 
went  on  to  something  else.  Father  asked  him  whose 
clever  saying  that  was,  and  he  said,  'Nietzsche,' — 
hope  I  've  got  the  spelling  right,— meaning  some  au- 


thor,  you  know.  Father  thought  it  was  the  name  of 
a  new  German  chancellor.  Oh,  it  was  such  a  lark ! 

"Then  Gurt's  wife  has  told  him  something  about 
Nopps  's  thatch  that  I  'm  sure  you  and  the  duke  never 
heard  of  before.  Dreadful,  if  it  's  true ;  but  you 
know  what  those  people  are.  He  does  bring  home 
such  a  budget  every  day !  The  dinners  are  so  lively 
now,  and  father  threatens  to  raise  the  drawbridge  on 
him  and  never  let  him  go.  It  's  killing  to  hear  him 
trying  to  give  the  story  in  the  Gurt  style.  You  know 
he  's  as  careful  about  his  words  as  you  are,  and  one 
might  print  him  straight  off.  So  just  fancy  him 
struggling  with  something  of  this  sort! 

"  'When  they  London  work-people  come  down  'ere 
for  the  triumphant  arches,  old  Nopps  an'  'is  wife 
think  they  might  earn  a  trifle  by  puttin'  up  a  pair 
of  my  gentlemen,  as  the  inn  was  full.  Well,  the  old 
couple  takes  the  spare  room  theirselves,  so  as  to  give 
the  lodgers  the  best  un.  Job  'elp  the  pore  things 
to  move,  an'  we  make  un  as  comf 'abl'  as  we  can,  by 
puttin'  un  under  the  dry  corner  o'  th'  thatch.  If 
the  rain  kep'  off,  they  'd  ha'  done  pretty  well,  for 
I  lent  un  a  peddykwoat  mysel'  to  plug  the  hole  in 
the  winder.  But  when  the  water  come  in,  old  Mr. 
Nopps  he  moan  o'  nights,  an'  she  couldn't  pacify 
un,  though  he  'd  'a'  Been  three  shillin'  to  the  good 
at  the  week-end.' 

"It  was  so  funny  to  hear  him  trying  to  shorten 
Mrs.  Gurt's  comf 'abl'.  He  could  n't  do  it  to  save  his 
life,  and  when  I  tried  to  explain  to  him  about  clip- 
ping his  g's  ,(by  request),  he  kept  waylaying  me  all 

189 


The  Yellow  Van 

day  with  absurd  challenges  to  a  game  of  'pin'-pon'.' 
He  has  the  most  ridiculous  theories  about  what  he 
calls  our  revised  version  of  the  English  language. 
He  pretends  to  think  that  the  dropped  Ti's  began 
with  a  natural  tendency  to  move  along  the  line  of 
least  resistance  in  the  short  spells  of  hot  weather. 
The  only  way  to  meet  a  climate  like  this,  he  says, 
is  to  lay  aside  your  coat  and  your  aspirates  when  the 
hustle  comes.  Isn't  'hustle'  a  funny  word,  Au- 
gusta ?  And  he  does  bring  it  in  so  cleverly  now  and 
then. 

"Then  he  reads  us  killing  little  bits  out  of  his 
American  papers.  Just  listen  to  this:  'The  Filipino 
is  treacherous  and  deceitful.  Besides,  we  want  his 
country.'  And  isn't  this  a  good  hit:  'Mr.  Pierpont 
Morgan  is  very  fond  of  the  Bible,  due  probably  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  a  number  of  books  merged  into 
one.'  "We  catch  it  sometimes:  'If  America  had  not 
sold  two  hundred  thousand  horses  and  mules  to 
Great  Britain,  the  Boers  would  be  all  on  foot  by 
this  time ! '  Father  says  he  can 't  see  the  point,  but 
I  call  it  decidedly  sly. 

"I  'm  afraid  he  does  n't  think  much  of  Mr.  Raif 's 
model  village.  He  calls  it  'the  penny  in  the  slot.' 
Don't  you  think  that  's  meant  to  be  rather  dis- 
respectful ? 

"And,  would  you  believe  it,  he  has  actually  met 
that  odious  person  Kisbye,  and  has  discovered  he  is 
not  exactly  the  utter  brute  we  all  think  him  down 
here.  It  appears  that  he  's  fond  of  music,  and  has 
some  beautiful  pictures  and  quite  a  library.  Fancy ! 

190 


The  Yellow  Van 

"When  we  heard  that,  we  had  Mr.  Bascomb  to 
meet  him,  just  to  take  the  taste  out  of  his  mouth. 
A.  was  perfectly  sweet:  not  a  funny  saying,  not  a 
laugh,  but  all  reverent  attention,  as  if  he  were  at 
church.  The  old  dear  quite  bridled  under  it,  and 
I  never  saw  him  look  so  pleased.  "When  he  was  gone, 
A.  said  it  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  he  had 
'struck'  in  his  travels.  That  was  the  expression;  I 
wrote  it  down. 

"He  does  go  into  the  strangest  places  and  meet 
the  strangest  people.  What  do  you  think  he  did 
on  Tuesday?  You  remember  that  dreadful  Radical 
van?  Spent  the  whole  day  with  them,  and  bought 
a  huge  bundle  of  the  trash  they  call  their  '  literature ' ! 
He  seems  to  be  quite  keen  about  our  country  life, 
knows  all  the  laboring  people,  has  been  to  see  old 
Spurr,— just  as  he  might  come  to  see  us,  you  know, — 
and  actually  went  to  a  meeting  of  the  parish  council 
and  heard  a  debate  on  the  pumps.  He  keeps  apolo- 
gizing for  staying  on,  but  we  are  so  delighted  to  have 
him.  Do  make  him  stop  till  you  come  back,  though 
it  seems  like  a  reason  for  not  wishing  for  your  speedy 
return. ' ' 

"Keep  him  just  as  long  as  you  find  him  useful 
[Augusta  wrote  in  reply].  You  know  I  sent  him  to 
cheer  you  up.  I  'm  glad  you  don't  take  him  too 
seriously ;  he  's  only  a  boy  looking  round.  But  he  '11 
be  a  man  the  moment  he  gives  his  mind  to  it.  So  we 
think." 


XXI 


T  is  mid- August,  and  the  family  is 
returning  to  Allonby.  The  poor 
season  in  town  has  flickered  out, 
but  this  new  one  in  the  country 
is  to  give  due  compensation.  There 
is  more  cheerful  news  from  the  seat 
of  war ;  the  nation  is  in  better  spirits :  society  is  ex- 
pected to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

For  weeks  the  four  hundred  people  attached  to 
the  service  of  the  castle— agents,  stewards,  grooms 
of  chambers,  gardeners,  keepers,  the  little  army  of 
the  stables— have  been  on  the  move.  The  miles  of 
walks  in  the  great  deer-park,  trimmed  with  spade 
labor,  have  the  precision  of  lines  on  a  map.  The 
dappled  herds,  scudding  without  sound  of  footfall 
through  the  glades,  yield  effects  of  low-lying  cloud. 
The  very  river  flowing  through  the  domain  seems 
to  have  been  washed  for  the  occasion.  You  may  count 
the  pebbles  in  the  shallower  parts  of  the  bed,  and  the 
fish  in  the  deeper.  The  mere  osiers  and  river-grasses 
are  organized  schemes  of  color,  intensified  by  the 
clearness  of  the  stream.  A  fleet  of  tiny  pleasure- 
boats,  spick  and  span  like  all  the  rest,  stands  at  its 
mooring  in  the  lake. 

Not  a  pond  but  can  give  an  account  of  itself.    The 

I92 


The  Yellow  Van 

frogs  are  unmistakably  on  the  establishment;  the 
squirrels,  the  birds,  and  all  the  other  living  things 
exhibit  the  freedom  from  fear  which  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  characterized  their  kind  in  Eden.  The 
trees  have  the  cleanliness  which  is  the  coquetry  of 
age.  Their  parasites  are  trained  for  sentimental  ef- 
fects of  dependence,  and  where  the  withering  limbs 
threaten  collapse  under  the  burden  of  centuries, 
their  crutches  are  at  hand.  The  same  perfection  of 
artificial  conditions  is  seen  in  the  great  vineries  as 
in  the  peach-houses  and  the  apricot-houses,  that  are 
to  be  measured  by  substantial  fractions  of  a  mile,  and 
in  the  tropical  house  a  perfect  university  of  floricul- 
ture, with  a  head-gardener  as  its  principal  dean  of 
the  faculty,  and  distinguished  professors  in  the  sev- 
eral chairs.  Every  tree,  plant,  flower,  beast  of  the 
field,  and  fowl  of  the  air,  as  a  retainer  of  the  house, 
seems  to  glory  in  its  cultivated  and  individualized 
perfection. 

The  preserves  especially  are  in  magnificent  order. 
A  large  party  is  expected  for  the  shooting,  and 
some  are  already  busy  with  the  grouse  on  one  of 
the  duke's  moors  in  the  North.  The  partridges  pos- 
itively languish  for  the  1st  of  September.  The  pin- 
ing pheasants  will  have  to  wait  for  a  month  more  be- 
fore the  head-keeper  can  redeem  his  promise  of  whole 
battalions  of  slaughter  in  well-stocked  preserves. 
With  these,  and  with  the  ground  game,  there  is  every 
hope  of  sport  for  the  autumn  and  winter.  When  the 
birds  have  been  silenced,  the  death-squeal  of  the  rab- 
bit will  take  up  the  wondrous  tale.  The  ferrets, 

13  193 


The  Yellow  Van 

whose  business  it  is  to  serve  these  shy  creatures  with 
notice  of  ejectment,  are  already  longing  to  be  at 
them.  Meanwhile  an  occasional  rat  tossed  into  their 
cage  saves  them  from  the  lapse  into  vegetarian  diet, 
and  keeps  them  wicked  for  their  work. 

Nothing  is  left  to  chance:  it  is  the  note  of  man- 
agement in  this  lordly  pleasure-house.  When  the 
guns  are  ready  for  the  game,  the  game  must  be 
ready  for  the  guns.  The  ferret  winds  into  the  bur- 
rows and  drives  the  rabbits  into  the  open.  The 
beaters  drive  them  on  to  the  line  of  fire,  as  they 
perform  the  same  kindly  service  for  the  birds.  This 
last  ill  turn,  indeed,  might  seem  to  be  enough  to 
frighten  all  animated  nature  from  Allonby  as  from 
a  place  accursed.  But  such  creatures,  being  un- 
troubled by  school  histories,  which  keep  alive  the 
memory  of  grievance,  are  incapable  of  bearing  the 
malice  of  tradition. 

The  cultivated  completeness  of  it  all  makes  a  pro- 
found impression  on  the  American  visitor.  "  And 
what  may  his  name  b'e?"  he  asks  the  head-keeper 
once,  in  a  moonlight  ramble,  as  a  hare  crosses  their 
path. 

"  His  name,  sir?" 

"Yes;  surely  you  have  him  somewhere  on  the 
register.  Shall  we  call  him  Leopold,  just  for  the 
sake  of  the  argument?" 

Mr.  Gooding's  sole  experience  of  sport  is  an  oc- 
casional bear-hunt  where  the  beast  looks  after  him- 
self, and  the  man  follows  his  example :  a  blanket  and 
a  camp-fire  for  one,  a  cave  for  the  other,  and  let  the 

194 


The  Yellow  Van 

best  win.  So  they  hunted  the  boar  in  Calydon.  The 
fox-hunting  of  the  Genesee  valley  may  set  all  that 
right  in  time  for  the  younger  community.  Mean- 
while, if  you  want  sport  as  a  fine  art,  you  must  seek 
it  in  a  country  which  is  too  small  and  too  thickly 
peopled  to  let  anything  happen  by  accident,  even  a 
hen's  egg. 

The  art  of  producing  that  egg  in  pheasantry,  and 
rearing  it  to  its  maturity  of  flight  in  whirring  fea- 
thers, is  one  of  the  triumphs  of  civilization.  The 
sacred  birds  govern  the  empire.  Parliament  rises 
for  them;  the  professions  make  holiday  to  await 
their  good  pleasure.  The  partridges  are  supposed  to 
be  wild,  but  that  is  only  their  fun.  The  main  dif- 
ference between  them  and  the  others  is  that  they  are 
watched  in  the  gross,  while  the  pheasants  are  tended 
in  detail.  Both  have  to  be  guarded  day  and  night, 
and  not  merely  against  poachers.  Stray  dogs  must 
not  come  near  them,  nor  even  stray  cats.  No  foot- 
fall of  the  wandering  lover  of  nature  may  render 
them  uneasy  in  their  minds.  You  can  hardly  get 
a  country  walk,  for  the  birds.  Even  when  you  have 
the  liberty  of  the  manor,  the  keeper  expects  you 
to  skirt  his  fields,  lest  you  flutter  the  game. 

11  I  suppose  you  don't  insist  on  their  going  to 
church  Sundays?  "  Mr.  Gooding  asks. 

The  keeper  rises  to  the  occasion.  "  Well,  if  they 
did,  they  'd  hear  summat  to  their  advantage  in 
the  exhortation  to  '  all  ye  fowls  of  the  air.' 

"  Fact  is,  sir,  you  must  have  it  so,  or  do  with- 
out your  sport.  The  pheasants  has  to  be  nussed  like 

'95 


The  Yellow  Van 

babies  from  first  to  last,  leastways  them  as  is  hand- 
reared.  Some  tries  to  manage  it  for  theirselves,  but 
they  're  ontidy  mothers.  All  I  ask  them  to  do  is 
lay  their  eggs.  After  that  it  's  like  the  advertise- 
ment—' we  do  the  rest.'  If  they  get  that  business 
over  nice  an'  early  in  the  year,  that  's  all  we  want 
of  'em.  My  men  '11  go  through  the  bracken  an' 
pick  up  the  eggs,  an'  I  '11  see  to  the  hatchin'.  That 
great  clearin'  close  to  my  lodge  is  where  the  hen 
sits  on  'em— common  barn-door  fowl,  that  's  your 
motherin'  bird,  ready  to  lay  on  anything,  from  a 
duck's  or  a  pheasant's  egg  to  a  lump  of  plaster  of 
Paris.  Pity  we  can't  put  'em  on  to  some  of  the  poor 
wizened  babbies  born  in  the  cottages." 

It  is  a  pregnant  saying  in  these  days,  when  there 
is  some  danger  that  mere  human  mothering  may 
become  one  of  the  lost  arts,  crowded  out,  as  it  were, 
by  societies  for  the  improvement  of  the  mind,  the 
development  of  the  individual,  and  other  equally 
pressing  concerns.  Perhaps  the  European  cuckoo 
is  destined  to  be  the  emblem  of  the  womanhood  of 
the  future,  with  her  startling  invention  of  mother- 
ing by  deputy.  The  cuckoo  dames  of  social  life, 
who  are  mothers  last,  whatever  else  comes  first, 
should  include  a  bird  of  this  variety  in  their  aviaries. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  learn  from  closer  observa- 
tion how  the  bird  employs  the  abundant  leisure 
which  she  derives  from  the  neglect  of  her  offspring, 
and,  incidentally,  from  the  destruction  of  that  of  her 
neighbors.  It  is  probably  devoted  to  the  more  intel- 
ligent contemplation  of  nature,  the  more  refined  care 

196 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  her  plumage,  the  improvement  of  her  voice,  and 
the  power  of  visiting  at  seasons  when  so  many  other 
birds  are  kept  at  home. 

Arthur  sticks  close  to  the  keeper  by  day  and  fre- 
quently by  night,  wondering  at  the  varieties  of  life 
in  the  world.  Sometimes,  in  their  wanderings 
through  the  woods,  they  come  upon  huge  gibbets 
whereon  the  withered  bodies  of  weasels,  stoats,  rats, 
hawks,  and  what  not  that  prey  upon  the  game,  swing 
high  and  dry  in  the  wind  as  an  awful  warning  to 
their  kind.  And  ever  at  intervals,  from  distant 
clumps  in  the  prospect,  comes  the  sharp  crack  of  the 
gun  as  some  new  offender  falls. 

All  day  long  the  under-keepers  are  on  the  watch 
to  keep  these  marauders  off  the  rearing-grounds. 
And  one  night  Arthur  goes  out  with  two  of  the  men 
to  look  for  poachers.  It  is  a  ghostly  round.  No  one 
speaks  as  they  stalk  through  the  awesome  woods  in 
Indian  file.  No  one  carries  a  lethal  weapon ;  the  law 
forbids:  the  gun  is  for  the  day  alone.  But  a  stout 
sapling  of  oak  or  blackthorn  is  still  arguable  as  a 
walking-stick,  and  with  that  they  have  to  be  content. 
"  Poachers  '11  use  their  guns  soon  as  look  at  ye," 
says  a  keeper,  bitterly,  ' '  but  us  may  n  't.  That  's 
English  law  for  ye!" 

For  miles  they  wander  through  the  dewy  grass, 
with  no  incident  but  an  occasional  snare  set  by  the 
poacher's  jackal  in  the  daytime  and  as  yet  unvisited 
by  his  employer.  The  jackal  is  the  vague  man,  the 
most  familiar  figure  of  the  country-side.  You  may 
see  him  every  day  taking  mild  refreshment  in  a 

197 


The  Yellow  Van 

corner  of  the  Knuckle  of  Veal,  while  his  female  mate 
squats  outside  on  the  sack  which  contains  all  their 
belongings.  Nothing  is  known  of  the  vague  man  but 
that  he  is  one  who  "  won't  do  a  day's  work  when 
there  is  mushrooms  about."  It  is  insufficient  as  a 
characterization.  Mushrooms  do  not  grow  all  the 
year  round,  and  the  vague  man  seems  to  be  out  of 
work  at  all  seasons.  He  looms  particularly  large 
now  that  the  game  is  coming  to  maturity.  He  is  un- 
troubled by  self-respect,  and  therefore  by  rancors. 
When  the  keepers  warn  him  off  their  fields,  he  climbs 
the  fence  without  a  word,  and  seems  to  dissolve  over 
its  remoter  side.  But  he  has  left  his  snare,  perhaps, 
for  all  that,  and  the  poachers  know  where  to  look  for 
it  on  the  moonless  nights. 

Suddenly,  as  the  three  walk,  one  of  them  stumbles 
over  something  in  the  grass,  and  a  shape  rises,  only, 
however,  to  be  instantly  pinned  to  the  ground  again. 
A  timely  oath  serves  to  establish  its  identity  with  hu- 
mankind. Three  others  come  to  the  rescue  in  a 
twinkling  from  behind  trees,  and  the  poachers  stand 
confessed.  Arthur  grasps  his  cudgel  and  advances 
to  the  assistance  of  the  struggling  keeper,  but  the 
other  holds  him  back. 

' '  Ware  stones,  sir !  Tim  's  all  right.  He  's  got 
a  look  at  un,  an'  that  's  all  he  want.  We  '11  know 
where  to  find  un  to-morrer  mornin'." 

The  words  are  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when 
some  heavy  missile  makes  a  close  shave  of  Mr.  Good- 
ing's  ear,  and  rebounds,  with  a  thud,  from  a  tree  to 
the  ground. 

198 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  Get  behind  a  tree,  sir!  They  '11  smash  your 
face  in.  They  got  their  pockets  full  o'  that  ammy- 
nition,  you  lay  your  life." 

The  next  thing  is  a  volley  of  oaths  and  stones  to- 
gether ;  and  under  cover  of  it  the  gang  makes  off. 

"  Who  was  they,  lad?  " 

"  Jinkins's  lot." 

"  Wust  lot  in  all  this  county,  sir,  bar  none.  Nearly 
did  for  yours  truly  last  year  in  a  public  where  I 
was  havin'  a  glass  to  myself  in  the  tap-room.  A 
put-up  job,  but  they  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Three 
fellers,  perfect  strangers  to  me,  comes  in,  all  of  a 
sudden  locks  the  door,  turns  out  the  light,  an'  then 
makes  tracks  for  me  in  the  dark.  I  caught  it,  I  do 
assure  you,  sir;  but  I  slipped  under  the  table,  an' 
that  kep'  off  the  wust  of  the  shower.  When  they 
thought  they  'd  settled  me,  they  let  theirselves  out, 
leavin'  me  to  guess  the  riddle  of  a  broken  rib.  The 
table  suffered  wust— two  legs  kicked  to  splinters." 

"  You  hunted  'em  down?  " 

' '  'Ow  could  I,  when  there  was  no  swearin '  to  'em  ? 
They  come  from  another  part— p'r'aps  forty  mile 
away.  The  gangs  work  together  for  little  things  o' 
this  sort.  Aye,  an'  they  put  up  the  money  to  defend 
when  we  prosecute  at  the  'sizes,  an'  keep  the  famil- 
ies o'  them  as  gets  lagged.  It  's  a  great  business, 
poachin'  is." 

"  So  is  sport,"  said  Mr.  Gooding— "  trust  versus 
trust." 


199 


XXII 


HE  duke  aud  his  wife— the  "  fam- 
ily, ' '  as  Slocum  always  ealled  them 
on  these  occasions — arrived  in  a 
few  days. 

Augusta's  sense  of  responsibil- 
ity for  her  second  and  decisive 
county  season  was  deepened  by  a  keener  sense  of  her 
husband's  importance.  In  London  he  was  still,  in  a 
sense,  one  of  the  crowd.  At  Allonby  he  commanded 
homage  as  well  as  respect.  The  very  porter  that 
opened  the  door  of  his  railway-carriage  hurried 
through  the  operation  as  though  in  sign  of  a  duke's 
exemption  from  the  toll  of  tips.  Seen  in  his  proper 
setting  as  noble,  as  lord  lieutenant  of  his  county, 
and  as  only  Burke  and  the  recording  angel  knew 
what  besides,  he  was  manifestly  a  magnate  of  the 
first  rank.  You  would  have  found  his  territorial 
mark  of  occupancy  on  maps  of  the  planet  in  which 
they  think  nothing  of  crowding  a  settlement  of  five 
millions  into  a  dot.  His  grandeur  seemed  to  be 
heightened  by  the  quietism  which,  on  his  return, 
he  had  resumed  as  a  sort  of  second  nature,  and  which 
was  in  impressive  contrast  to  the  strenuousness  of 
Augusta's  spirit.  He  seemed  to  belong  to  some 
fabled  race  that  moved  without  friction  of  the 

200 


The  Yellow  Van 

nerves,  and  prevailed  only  by  the  irresistible  compul- 
sion of  silent  and  hidden  forces. 

The  bustle  of  stately  business  that  ensued  on  their 
arrival  was  still  something  of  a  new  experience  for 
the  duchess.  She  was,  of  course,  not  wholly  ignorant 
of  the  peculiarity  which  makes  our  older  societies, 
seen  from  above,  but  a  descending  scale  in  parasit- 
ism, and,  from  below,  a  Jacob's  ladder  leaning  on 
the  stars.  But  here  was  the  system  in  full  view. 
Only  one  or  two  of  the  highest  officers  of  the  house- 
hold were  admitted  to  the  ducal  presence,  and  these, 
again,  vouchsafed  personal  notice  to  hardly  as  many 
more.  The  agent  who  had  just  had  the  honor  of 
audience  passed  through  the  antechamber  without 
deigning  a  glance  to  right  or  left.  It  was  impres- 
sive, no  doubt;  and  so,  Augusta  thought,  was  that 
court  of  the  first  king  of  the  Medes,  where  all  were 
forbidden  to  laugh. 

The  duke  seemed  to  find  a  certain  comfort  in  it. 
lie  was  at  least  among  his  own  people.  Everybody 
knew  him  at  Allonby,  though  he  was  not  always 
able  to  return  the  compliment.  In  London  he  was 
still  as  obscure,  in  most  part,  as  the  calif  in  a  mid- 
night ramble.  Lordship  is  sometimes  too  impersonal 
in  these  days.  He  had  once  been  much  amused, 
when  taking  the  number  of  an  impudent  driver,  to 
find  his  own  cipher  and  coronet  on  the  door  of  the 
cab.  As  figurehead  of  a  hackney-carriage  company, 
he  owned  this  insignificant  person,  and  could  have 
crushed  him  with  a  word.  He  did  not  speak  the 
word,  because  his  good  nature  shrank  from  the 

2OI 


The  Yellow  Van 

thought  of  its  devastating  effects.  But  the  offense 
was  grave.  He  might  have  extended  his  drive  by  at 
least  thirty  yards  for  the  shilling  which  he  had  ten- 
dered in  payment  of  his  fare.  Yet,  as  he  alighted 
at  the  door  of  his  club,  he  was  followed  by  the  scorn- 
ful cry,  "There  yer  go,  to  enj'y  yerself  at  my  ex-- 
pense ! ' ' 

Augusta  turned  with  still  fuller  relief  to  the  more 
human  associations  of  the  village.  The  Herions  were 
naturally  first  in  her  thoughts.  She  had  more  than 
once  determined  to  hear  the  other  side  of  the  story 
of  their  exodus.  As  it  stood  in  the  casual  notice  of 
Mary  Liddicot's  postscript,  it  was  an  act  of  re- 
bellion. George  had  been  "  disrespectful  to  the 
agent," — as  though  a  midge  had  wantonly  arraigned 
the  splendor  of  the  sun, — and  he  had  rashly  thrown 
up  a  profitable  calling  for  the  fatuous  dream  of  a 
"  fortune  in  London."  So  had  Mr.  Eaif  reported, 
and  so,  without  giving  a  second  thought  to  it,  had 
Mary  written.  What  was  the  truth? 

Augusta  soon  found  her  way  to  the  cottage  in 
which  the  two  mothers  had  clubbed  their  fortunes 
to  make  a  home  for  Rose  and  George.  They  received 
her  with  the  profoundest  respect,  yet  at  first,  charac- 
teristically, without  a  single  word  on  the  subject 
which  was  nearest  to  their  hearts.  They  were  too 
much  afraid  of  her  for  that.  After  all,  she  was 
still  one  of  the  "  betters  "  who  had  dealt  the  blow. 

"It  do  seem  a  powerful  long  time  sence  your 
Grace  went  away,  sure-ly." 

"  Yes,  and  what  changes!  " 

202 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  Aye— at  the  war,  loike?  " 

"  No,  at  Slocum;  the  village  seems  hardly  the 
same. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  that  parish  council !  They  '11  niver  get 
beyand  the  well-water.  Your  Grace  need  n't  be 
afraid. ' ' 

Tabby  Edmer,  as  she  was  called,  had  held  the 
parable  hitherto;  but  now  old  Phoebe  Herion  broke 
in  with  vehemence: 

' '  I  wish  they  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  well ! 
They  bin  the  curse  o'  the  place." 

' '  Hush ! ' '  said  her  mate,  reprovingly,  and  then 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  the  duchess,  taking 
a  chair. 

"  Oh,  your  Grace,"  cried  Tabby,  "  they  're  gone, 
they  're  gone— out  of  all  sight  and  knowledge— lost 
i'  London!  Look  'ee  here."  She  drew  from  her 
pocket  a  returned  letter,  marked  officially,  "Gone 
away. ' ' 

"  What,  your  children?  That  's  nothing— only 
a  change  of  lodging.  They  '11  soon  write  again. ' ' 

"It  's  bad  luck,  your  Grace.  I  know  my  gell. 
She  's  'shamed  of  some  trouble;  that  's  her  sperrit." 

' '  Shame  for  you !  ' '  said  Phoebe,  turning  like  some 
vexed  animal  on  her  mate.  "  Shame  for  you,  to 
think  your  own  flesh  an'  blood  would  n't  have  no 
feelin'  for  your  trouble,  too." 

"Then  she  's  ill  or  dead,"  returned  the  other, 
quickly.  ' '  There,  now ;  you  've  said  it  yersel ' ! " 

"An'  my  boy,  too,  then,"  faltered  Phoebe,  yield- 

203 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  to  the  pitiless  logic  of  the  case.  Whereat  the 
two  bereaved  Rachels  lifted  up  their  voices  together 
in  a  lamentation  that  filled  their  little  four-square 
world  with  woe. 

"  There  may  be  some  mistake,"  said  the  duchess. 

"No  mistake,  your  Grace,"  wailed  Tabby.  "Read 
the  prenting,  '  O.H.M.S.'— '  On  Her  Majesty's  Sar- 
vice';  it  's  from  the  Queen.  The  first  letter  in  all 
my  loife  I  've  iver  'ad  thrown  back  at  me  in  that 
way.  I  know  she  was  hidin'  somethin'  all  along. 
But  that  's  her  sperrit — never  give  in.  Oh,  they  're 
lost!  they  're  lost!  " 

' '  We  '11  find  them  again, ' '  said  Augusta.  And 
she  added  gently:  "But  why  did  they  ever  go 
away?" 

"Because  they  was  druv,"  cried  the  old  woman, 
simply,  and  with  a  touch  of  revolt  in  her  tone. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  assure  you,"  said  Augusta,  in  her 
haste  to  console ;  "  I  know  all  the  facts. ' '  And  then 
she  stopped  and  bit  her  lip  with  the  mortifying  re- 
flection that  she  did  not  know  a  single  one  of  them 
for  which  she  could  vouch. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  by  way  of  groping 
toward  the  light.  "George  was  dissatisfied  with 
his  life  here,  though  I  thought  he  was  doing  so 
well." 

"Dissatisfied!  Your  Grace,  he  was  makin'  his 
fortune.  Saved  eighteen  bright  sovereigns  'n  less 
'an  half  a  year." 

"But  he  wanted  to  make  more  in  London,  it 
seems." 

204 


The  Yellow  Van 

"God  forgi'e  me!  but  some  un  's  bin  tellin'  lies," 
said  Tabby. 

"  I  want  the  whole  story  from  the  beginning," 
said  Augusta,  sternly.  "  Right  here." 

Still  they  could  not  tell  it ;  they  were  too  much  in 
awe  of  their  visitor.  These  acquired  habits  of  defer- 
ence often  cut  clean  athwart  nature's  rights.  It 
is  sometimes  easier  with  this  class  to  die  than  to 
offend  a  superior  with  a  too  intrusive  claim. 

So  Augusta  had  to  proceed  by  cross-examination. 

"Was  he  not  disrespectful  to  the  agent?" 

"Never  spoke  a  word  to  the  agent,  or  about  'un, 
all  the  days  of  his  loife." 

Augusta  was  still  stern.  "Please  do  me  the  favor 
to  treat  me  as  a  fellow-creature,  if  we  are  to  get  on." 

Plain  speaking  being  now  the  line  of  least  resis- 
tance, Phcebe  said:  "Then  you  'd  better  have  the 
truth  about  it— duchess  as  y'  are.  He  wur  clean 
hunted  out  of  the  place  for  raisin'  's  voice  at  the 
'lection.  Gentlefolks  won't  stand  that  in  their 
'earts,  though  they  make  believe  not  to  mind.  You 
can't  understand— how  should  ye?  You  're  a 
woman  from  over  the  sea.  George  wur  a  fool,  an' 
spoke  up,  an'  they  've  ruined  'im.  Now  turn  me  out 
on  the  roadside,  if  you  like,  's  well  's  'im.  I  doan' 
much  care." 

Augusta  jumped  up,  and,  kissing  them  both  where 
they  stood  in  dutiful  pose  before  her,  drew  them 
to  her  side  on  the  old  dimity-covered  sofa.  And 
there,  duchess  no  longer,  but  just  woman  to  woman, 
she  heard  the  whole  dismal  story— Kisbye's  "mark" 

205 


The  Yellow  Van 

on  George  because  of  his  little  outburst  on  the  night 
of  the  visit  of  the  van;  the  agent's  "mark"  for  the 
crime  of  leavening  the  parish  council  with  a  Radical 
candidate.  The  pair  had  well-nigh  all  the  talking  to 
themselves ;  their  visitor  hardly  spoke  a  word,  except 
to  ask  for  a  name  or  a  date.  And  she  was  still  as 
sparing  of  speech  when  the  tale  was  done.  She 
merely  hurried  back  to  the  castle,  and  went  straight 
to  her  husband's  room. 


206 


XXIII 


HE  was  imperious  no  longer.  On  the 
contrary,  the  duke  thought  he  had 
never  seen  her  so  radiantly  cheer- 
ful since  they  rambled  through  the 
European  cities  on  their  honey- 
moon tour.  He  was  up  to  the  eyes 
in  business,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  he  gladly  suf- 
fered her  to  make  a  feint  of  sweeping  all  his  papers 
aside. 

"  Henry,  you  are  going  to  make  this  the  happiest 
day  of  my  life." 

''And  why  not  every  day  after  it,  too?"  he  said 
gallantly.  It  was  inevitable,  with  his  feeling  for  her 
and  his  breeding  combined.  His  brief  training  as  a 
husband,  however,  had  not  left  him  free  from  mis- 
givings of  a  kind.  "A  blue  diamond  is  a  vain  thing, 
my  Augusta,  but  still—" 
"A  blue  diamond?" 

' '  You  Ve  been  reading  that  nonsense  in  this  morn- 
ing's  paper." 

"No;  only  listening  to  two  old  women." 
"Much  the  same  thing,  I  should  say.    It  's  an  heir- 
loom ;  and  how  do  we  know  it  is  in  the  market  ? ' ' 

"True  enough,"  she  said,  by  way  of  taking  him 
in  his  humor.    "But  something  else  may  do." 

207 


The  Yellow  Van 

' '  Well,  let  me  know  the  worst. ' ' 

"A  little  act  of  justice— of  reparation,"  she  said; 
"a  poor  insignificant  thing— smaller  than  the  dia- 
mond, I  dare  say.  You  see,  I  want  to  let  you  down 
as  gently  as  I  can. ' ' 

"Perhaps  I  'm  going  to  wish  it  was  the  diamond, 
after  all.  Reparation  for  what?" 

"You  remember  the  Herions,  Rose  and  George? 
You  know  I  told  you  about  them— the  village  wed- 
ding?" 

"I  remember  everything  you  tell  me,  of  course; 
only  sometimes  I  'm  a  little  dense  about  names. 
Anybody  wanting  a  place?" 

"That  's  just  it.  Oh,  you  do  guess  things  so 
beautifully !  They  've  been  driven  out  of  their  place 
in  Slocum,  and  I  want  to  bring  them  back. ' ' 

"  My  dear  Augusta,  my  finite  intelligence  can 
hardly  take  note  of  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.  'Driven 
out!'  I  thought  they  were  here  still— if  I  thought 
anything  about  it,  I  am  obliged  to  say.  What  is  it 
— want  of  house-room  or  anything  of  that  sort?  We 
can  soon  set  that  right,  if  it  will  please  you." 

"Henry,  they  have  managed  to  offend  the  agent, 
from  no  fault  of  theirs,  and  they  are  ruined." 

His  face  darkened  slightly.  "That  's  rather  a 
different  matter.  I  don't  like  to  interfere." 

"Yet  if  it  was  all  a  wretched  mistake?" 

"Of  course;  but— what  the  deuce  is  it  all  about, 
I  wonder?"  he  added  a  little  peevishly,  and  pushing 
the  papers  back  in  real  earnest  this  time. 

"Something  about  the  election." 

208 


The  Yellow  Van 

''What  election?    There  are  so  many  of  them." 

"The— the  parish  council,  don't  you  call  it?" 

"Scent  recovered,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  of  relief. 
"My  dear,  what  do  I  know  about  that?  Yes,  I  do 
know  something,  after  all.  Was  n't  your  swain  the 
one  who  had  his  hand  to  the  plow  and  looked  back  in 
his  pride  to  organize  an  '  opposition  to  the  castle '  ? " 

"I  dare  say." 

The  words  meant  a  good  deal,  and  they  both  felt 
it.  But  she  added  nothing  to  them,  and  he  saw 
that  it  was  his  turn  next. 

' '  He  might  have  contrived  to  be  civil  to  the  agent. ' ' 

"Henry,  he  never  spoke  one  word  to  the  agent, 
or  about  the  agent." 

"I  am  obliged  to  leave  these  matters  to  Willocks," 
he  said,  looking  wearily  at  his  papers  again.  "One 
thing  I  am  quite  sure  of:  he  acted  for  what  he 
thought  the  best  in  the  interests  of  the  estate." 

"Do  you  think  I  would  have  troubled  you  with 
all  this  if  I  had  not  convinced  myself  that  the  mis- 
take was  on  our  side?" 

Her  tone  betrayed  a  secret  and  a  more  searching 
pang.  The  sense  of  injustice  was  bad  enough;  but, 
human  nature  being  what  it  is,  here  was  something 
worse.  She  had  expressed  a  wish,  and  a  man  had 
hesitated  to  gratify  it.  She  had  never  before  been 
thwarted  in  that  way.  It  was  a  new  experience  for 
her,  both  as  bride  and  as  woman. 

"It  is  hard,"  she  said  coldly. 

He  could  not  wholly  miss  her  meaning,  though 
the  more  intimate  part  of  it  escaped  him  still. 

14  209 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  'Pride  goeth  before  a  fall/  "  she  added;  "but 
I  thought  I  had  been  so  careful." 

This  quickened  his  apprehension.  "Augusta, 
what  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"To  stand  fair  between  them  and  the  man  who 
has  wronged  them  in  your  name."  Her  very  pride 
now  forbade  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  more  deli- 
cate point. 

"Augusta,  you  do  not  quite  understand.  There 
is  more  in  it  than  you  think.  We  must  know  our 
own  minds." 

"We  must  do  justice." 

"As  much  as  you  like,  but  the  larger  justice. 
What  are  we  here  who  have  England  in  our  charge 
— ten  thousand,  or  a  hundred  thousand,  I  don't  care 
which?  A  handful.  Where  should  we  be,  and  the 
country  with  us,  if  we  could  be  made  to  sing  small 
by  any  bumpkin  fresh  from  his  first  pamphlet  on 
the  right  of  way  to  govern  about  a  fifth  of  the  hu- 
man race?  That  's  what  it  comes  to,  in  the  long 
run,  though  this  one  's  only  beginning  with  his  own 
parish.  We  hold  on  just  by  mere  prestige.  I  am 
not  now  talking  about  what  the  penny  papers  call 
society.  I  'm  talking  of  the  whole  thing,  if  you 
will  have  it  so— the  fabric  of  a  thousand  years.  It 
is  still  a  government  for  the  people  instead  of  by 
them— with  all  imaginable  respect  for  the  Parish 
Councils  Act." 

She  was  bitterly  disappointed.  So  this  was  one 
of  the  implications  of  the  part  to  which  she  had 
been  disposed  to  take  so  kindly!  This  was  the  ro- 
mance of  the  feudal  relation  on  its  business  side. 

210 


The  Yellow  Van 

''Oh,  Henry,  we  want  air  here.    It  can't  last." 

"It  has  lasted  pretty  well,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  too  long,  I  'm  afraid.  We  are  still  play- 
ing at  being  in  the  middle  ages,  and  without  con- 
viction, too.  We  're  grown-up  children  now:  we 
must  change  our  toys  with  the  times." 

"Toys!" 

' '  These  heights  of  worship  and  honor,  those  depths 
of  reverence  and  submission.  Do  let  us  help  people 
to  feel  that  they  're  alive." 

"You  seemed  to  like  the  toys,  Augusta,  when  you 
began  the  game." 

The  reproach  stung  her,  for  it  was  true.  Had 
she  not  taken  a  little  too  readily  to  her  feudal  part  ? 
There  seemed  so  much  to  be  said  for  paternal  gov- 
ernment when  it  was  of  the  right  sort.  The  duke's 
duchess  had  naturally  liked  to  think  so,  since  it  gave 
her  her  opportunity  (dear  to  every  woman)  as 
earthly  Providence.  The  contrast  with  what  she  had 
left  behind  was  so  refreshing.  How  exquisite  to  have 
about  one  fellow-creatures  trained  for  the  petting, 
instead  of  a  set  of  wild  things  of  the  wood  whose 
only  wish  was  to  have  you  out  of  the  way!  So  she 
had  come  to  hold  place  and  power  in  the  Primrose 
League,  to  patronize  local  charities,  to  be  a  sort  of 
mother  of  her  people  within  the  domain. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him. 

' '  Another  riddle,  Augusta  ? ' ' 

"Well,  that  our  power  to  keep  meant  so  much 
power  to  hinder  and  hurt." 

"Power,  I  take  it,  is  a  sort  of  all-round  thing. 

21  I 


The  Yellow  Van 

And,  you  know,  you  're  a  greater  aristocrat  than 
any  of  us,  if  you  care  to  look  at  it  that  way." 

"Henry!" 

"In  your  sense  of  the  claims  of  mind,  manners, 
character— that  's  all  I  mean. ' ' 

"You  are  very  complimentary  this  morning." 

"Give  us  a  little  share  in  that  praise,  too." 

"Oh,  but-" 

"Well,  be  as  generous  as  you  can." 

"I  suppose  we  've  got  to  be  everlastingly  trying 
to  master  people  in  this  weary  old  life.  Still,  we 
might  all  start  fair.  It  's  such  a  wayward  sort  of 
handicap  here!" 

"Which  the  same  you  might  rise  to  explain." 

"The  inherited  deference— the  peak  of  the  cap 
an  institution,  almost  an  act  of  faith !  The  paltry 
village  education  in  manhood  and  womanhood !  The 
social  system  a  sort  of  worship  of  ancestors,  and 
mostly  other  people's  ancestors  at  that!  The  petti- 
ness of  it  all— my  God,  the  pettiness!  Anything 
rather  than  that,  even  the  fierce  millions  all  straining 
at  the  leash  for  they  know  not  what,  but  at  least  for 
the  good  of  muscle  and  nerve." 

He  was  nettled.  "Why  not?  Authority  must 
be  maintained,  worse  luck  for  those  who  are  rather 
tired  of  their  share  of  the  work.  Is  it  really  differ- 
ent, do  you  think,  anywhere  else  in  the  world  ? ' ' 

She  took  up  the  challenge.  "Perhaps  there  are 
places  where  they  leave  both  sides  to  fight  it  out 
more  according  to  their  strength,  without  calling 
in  the  catechism." 

212 


The  Yellow  Van 

"No  doubt,"  he  said,  answering  her  according  to 
her  parable :  ' '  the  best  and  the  worst  of  places,  where 
both  sides,  good  and  bad,  are  at  it  for  all  they  are 
worth,  with  the  powers  that  be  as  a  mere  bottleholder. 
Can  anybody  be  sure  which  side  is  going  to  win  ? ' ' 

"Can  anybody  doubt  it?"  she  said. 

"A  free  fight  of  that  sort  might  shake  some  of  us 
to  pieces.  If  all  are  born  to  the  conflict,  they  are 
born  to  the  weapons,  too." 

"What  a  reason  for  ruining  a  man— because  he 
has  shown  want  of  respect!" 

"If  you  come  to  that,  what  a  reason  for  ruining 
him— because  he  wants  brains!" 

"It  is  a  step  forward  in  ruling  castes,  at  any  rate, 
poor  as  the  step  is.  One  day  I  suppose  we  shall  have 
all  the  strength  in  the  world  at  the  service  of  all 
the  weakness.  But,  Henry,  we  are  talking  at  one 
another,  and  where  are  the  Herions  meanwhile?" 

They  both  laughed. 

This  sally  helped  him  to  recover  his  temper,  by 
restoring  Augusta  to  him  in  all  her  glory.  The 
curious  by-play  of  their  little  scene  was  that  the 
more  he  opposed,  the  more  she  insisted;  and  as  she 
insisted,  the  more  he  felt  the  charm  of  the  almost 
coquettish  wilfulness  of  self-respect  with  which  she 
had  originally  won  him.  Say,  if  you  like,  that  he 
was  the  more  ready  to  be  impressed  by  it  in  matters 
of  this  sort  because,  in  others,  he  was  perfectly  tired 
of  the  claims  of  his  blazon. 

He  yielded  a  point.  "I  can't  always  do  as  I 
please.  Who  could,  standing  in  my  shoes?" 

213 


The  Yellow  Van 

She  felt  for  him,  yet  she  could  hardly  bring  her- 
self to  say  so  there  and  then.  She  knew  that  at 
times,  with  the  solitary  exception  that  was  the  all  in 
all  for  her,  he  was  doomed  to  be  almost  as  free  from 
personal  longings,  personal  initiative,  as  the  hero 
of  the  Bhagavad.  It  was  his  business,  as  a  patron 
of  his  portion  of  the  human  race,  to  like  what  ought 
to  be  liked  in  rigid  social  convention,  to  do  what 
ought  to  be  done.  Since  her  marriage  she  had  been 
a  silent  but  sympathetic  observer  of  these  trials  of 
a  fellow-creature  who  was  everlastingly  doing  his 
duty.  He  was  not  merely  lord  lieutenant  of  his 
county :  with  his  birth,  his  wealth,  his  position,  there 
was  no  escaping  that.  He  was  a  commanding  officer 
of  volunteers  and  of  yeomanry;  he  held  the  com- 
mission of  the  peace,  and  frequently  sat  in  the  chair 
of  justice  at  quarter-sessions.  He  patronized  jus- 
tice as  he  patronized  the  auxiliary  forces,  and  as,  in 
another  and  a  more  technical  sense,  he  patronized 
the  church  by  nominating  to  some  four-and-twenty 
pulpits.  He  bred  impartially  for  the  course  and  for 
the  cattle  shows.  It  seemed  all  one  to  him,  since 
the  region  in  which  his  lot  was  cast  was  above  that 
of  personal  tastes.  It  was  his  pride  that  one  could 
never  tell  what  he  liked  best  from  his  manner  of 
doing  it.  The  only  clue  to  his  preference  was  to  be 
found  when  he  happened  to  travel  beyond  the  circle 
of  social  obligations.  Thus,  while  foundation-stones 
were  hardly  to  be  attributed  to  him  as  creature  com- 
forts, there  was  a  certain  taint  of  relish  in  his  free- 
masonry. He  bought  pictures,  statuary,  curios, 

214 


The  Yellow  Van 

without  caring  a  fiddlestick  about  them,  and  simply 
by  way  of  being  civil  to  the  arts.  His  wife's  after- 
knowledge  of  all  this  showed  her  by  what  a  mighty 
effort  he  must  have  broken  one  link  of  his  chain 
when  he  stood  forth  before  all  the  world  to  say: 
"This  is  the  woman  of  my  choice." 

But  he  had  said  it;  and  how  could  she  fail  in 
grateful  remembrance  of  it  now? 

"I  understand  everything,"  she  said  with  great 
tenderness.  "I  leave  it  in  your  hands." 

In  spite  of  claims  that,  with  her,  were  as  those 
of  birthright,  she  was  still  ready  to  yield  to  love 
what  she  might  have  refused  to  principle — full  of 
most  delicious  contradictions  in  that  way,  and  there- 
fore the  true  woman  still,  or  perhaps,  after  all,  only 
the  true  human  being.  Her  whole  anxiety  now  was 
to  save  him  from  the  pain  of  the  conflict  which  she 
had  raised  in  his  mind. 

"See  these  poor  old  people,"  she  said;  "hear  their 
story.  If  you  are  satisfied,  leave  the  rest  to  me. 
You  need  not  appear  in  it  at  all." 

But  he  was  now,  if  possible,  keener  than  herself. 

"Better  find  the  young  people  at  once,  and  get 
it  at  first  hand.  The  rest  will  be  my  part."  And 
he  led  her  to  the  door. 

It  was  Augusta's  triumph,  whatever  the  issue. 
With  all  the  higher  claims,  luckily,  it  is  the  greater  the 
sacrifice  the  greater  the  joy.  The  smug  religions  per- 
ish :  the  faiths  that  are  to  supplant  them  wisely  begin 
by  calling  for  volunteers  for  martyrdom.  Happy 
the  nation  whose  women  are  never  afraid  to  ask! 

215 


XXIV 

TILL  thirsting  for  information,  Mr. 
Arthur  Gooding  thought  he  would 
like  to  tear  out  the  heart  of  rural 
England  in  a  motor-car.  This 
mystery  is  usually  the  reward  of 

years  of  toilsome  observation.    Mr. 

Gooding  was  in  a  hurry.  America,  to  which  he  be- 
longed, is  in  much  the  same  state.  He  purposed  to 
devote  a  day  to  it. 

A  project  of  Mary  Liddicot's  gave  him  the  excuse 
for  the  adventure.  Mary  was  the  delight  of  his 
active  and  observant  spirit,  a  constant  stimulus  to 
his  sense  of  wonder.  She  was  something  quite  new, 
as  one  of  those  who  are  still  children  at  three-score 
and  ten,  if  they  live  as  long,  and  this  by  no  mere 
reversion  to  second  childishness.  Simple  and  down- 
right, she  suggested  an  organism  untroubled  by  con- 
volutions of  the  brain.  It  was  neither  a  fault  nor  a 
quality  with  her,  but  merely  a  fact.  These  childlike 
natures,  seeing  life  solely  in  its  direct  issues,  may 
be  the  most  vicious  creatures  alive.  There  are  adults 
of  infancy  in  the  jails,  as  well  as  in  the  country 
houses  and  honeysuckle  homes.  They  are  not  un- 
known on  thrones,  and  there  they  sometimes  exhibit 
amazing  powers  of  mastery.  Where  this  ever-endur- 

216 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  age  of  innocence  is  Hacked  by  a  strong  under- 
standing, as  in  Mary's  case,  it  is  capable  of  yielding 
precious  result.  She  was  a  yea  or  nay  girl,  a  sort 
of  high-bred  Quaker,  incapable  of  " point"  in  any- 
thing but  her  shoes.  She  often  hit  the  nail  right  on 
the  head  in  the  most  felicitous  manner,  yet,  if  you 
complimented  her  for  epigram,  she  said,  ' '  Fancy ! ' ' 
not  knowing  in  the  least  what  you  meant.  Some- 
times she  seemed  deliberately  hard,  sometimes  quite 
insensitive;  and  then,  again,  you  thought  she  was 
ready  to  swear  blood-brotherhood  with  you  on  the 
spot.  You  would  have  been  just  as  wrong  in  this 
case  as  in  the  others.  You  had  given  her  a  pleasur- 
able emotion,  and  she  showed  it  like  any  other  child ; 
that  was  all. 

Mary  and  her  father  were  going  to  London.  The 
squire  began  it.  He  had  received  another  letter 
from  the  mysterious  money-lender,  Mr.  Claude  Va- 
vasour, hinting  at  the  prudence  of  a  friendly  ar- 
rangement of  Tom  Liddicot's  affairs.  The  captain 
being  in  South  Africa  fighting  for  his  country,  it 
behooved  those  who  were  interested  in  the  honor 
of  the  family  name  to  consider  their  position.  Such 
was  the  impression  that  Mr.  Vavasour  contrived  to 
convey,  by  suggestion,  of  course,  without  saying  a 
single  word  that  could  be  quoted  to  his  detriment. 
It  made  the  squire  hot  and  cold,  and  finally  led  him 
to  form  the  strong  resolution  of  facing  Mr.  Vavasour 
in  his  den  and  having  it  out  with  him.  Mary 
dreaded  the  consequences,  and  tried  to  dissuade  her 
father— in  the  process,  of  course,  only  urging  the 

217 


The  Yellow  Van 

very  things  that  made  him  more  intent  on  his  pur- 
pose. Then  she  said  she  would  go  up  with  him,  as 
she  wanted  to  go  shopping.  That  was  her  nearest 
approach  to  a  stroke  of  politic  subterfuge,  but,  the 
squire  having  much  the  same  cast  of  mind  as  her- 
self, it  served  her  turn. 

Now  came  Mr.  Gooding's  opportunity.  He  pro- 
posed to  meet  them  in  town,  and  give  them  a  lift, 
on  their  way  home,  in  his  car.  Mary  was  wild  with 
delight.  It  was  untried  being.  With  that  prospect 
on  her  part,  the  squire's  objection  to  the  mode  of 
transit  was  speedily  overruled.  They  went  up  by 
train,  on  the  understanding  that  their  escort  should 
await  them  next  morning  for  the  return  journey. 

So,  early  on  the  appointed  day,  the  squire  knocked 
at  the  door  of  Mr.  Vavasour's  office,  situated  in  an 
old  nondescript  West  End  square  under  the  lee  of 
Buckingham  Palace.  Mary,  who  had  been  left  below 
in  the  cab,  found  plenty  to  amuse  her  in  the  move- 
ment of  the  scene.  She  was  still  busy  with  anticipa- 
tions of  the  coming  trip  when  her  father  almost 
rushed  back  into  the  street,  as  pale  as  one  who  had 
seen  a  ghost,  and  a  good  half-hour  before  the  time 
for  their  meeting  with  the  young  man.  And  at  his 
heels,  vainly  attempting  to  perform  the  ceremony  of 
conducting  him  to  the  door,  was  Mr.  Kisbye ! 

It  was  Mary 's  turn  to  look  pale  now.  She  started, 
averted  her  gaze  from  the  apparition,  and  gave  a 
faint  nod  into  vacancy  in  acknowledgment  of  an 
obsequious  bow. 

Yet  that  glance  of  a  single  instant  had  shown 

218 


The  Yellow  Van 

her  something  more  of  him  than  she  had  yet  seen. 
In  their  chance  encounters  of  the  roadside  she  had 
persistently  cut  him  dead.  She  now  realized  him  as 
of  middle  height  and  age,  bald,  with  the  swarthy 
look  of  a  "foreigner,"  yet  well  dressed  in  the  Eng- 
lish manner,  probably  by  way  of  an  informal  at- 
tempt at  naturalization. 

The  effect  was  scarcely  less  startling  upon  him. 
He  blushed  through  his  tan,  cast  an  admiring  look 
at  the  girl,  muttered  something  which  seemed  to  die 
away  on  his  lips,  ducked  again,  and  vanished. 

The  behavior  of  all,  indeed,  was  as  though  each  had 
been  a  ghostly  visitant  for  the  others.  The  squire  had 
gone  up-stairs  to  seek  out  an  indeterminate  money- 
lender, and  had  found  his  detested  neighbor  of  the 
Grange.  Mr.  Kisbye  had  come  down-stairs  to  show 
him  out,  and  had  encountered  Mary,  hardly  a  phan- 
tom, but  still  an  entirely  unexpected  shape.  Mary 
had  been  as  little  prepared  for  this  sudden  discharge 
of  the  hated  creature  at  short  range. 

The  old  man  threw  himself  into  the  cab,  and  dart- 
ing his  fist  through  the  trap,  gasped,  "Home!" 

"Father,"  said  the  girl,  "home  is  Liddicot  now; 
we  can 't  get  there  in  a  hansom. ' '  And,  in  obedience 
to  her  amended  order,  the  driver  began  to  walk  his 
horse  slowly  round  the  square. 

"What  is  it,  dad?" 

' '  Don 't  you  see  for  yourself,  Polly  ?  Our  money- 
lender is  Kisbye— one  face  of  Satan  under  two 
hoods.  An  infernal  usurer,  with  a  place  between  ours 
and  the  duke's.  And  Tom  in  his  toils!" 

219 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Did  n't  he  seem  ashamed  of  being  found  out?" 

''Never  a  bit." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said,  'Who  are  you?  I  came  to  see  Mr.  What- 
d'-ye-call-'em.'  " 

"And  then?" 

"  'That  's  my  name  in  business,'  says  he,  with  a 
smile  for  which  I  could  have  choked  him." 

"And  you?" 

"I  said,  'Oh!'  " 

"Well?" 

' '  Then  he  fingered  his  watch-guard.  It  may  come 
in  useful  if  ever  they  want  to  hang  him  in  chains. ' ' 

"Of  course,  dear— and?" 

"Well,  you  see,  there  was  n't  much  to  say  after 
that." 

"Father,  you  are  keeping  something  back." 

"What  is  there  to  keep?  Well,  then  he  came 
out  with  a  rigmarole  of  his  infernal  shop-walker's 
civility  and  attention  on  the  subject  of  Tom's  affairs. 
His  style  was  like  a  butler  looking  for  a  place.  But 
his  meaning  was,  'What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  '—just  that." 

"Never  mind,  we  can  snub  him  to  death,  and  then 
he  '11  have  to  leave  the  county." 

"Much  he  cares  for  that,  you  little  simpleton. 
If  snubbing  could  kill,  we  'd  have  had  him  in  his 
grave  long  since.  Polly,  there  was  mastery  in  his 
eye." 

"Insolence,  you  mean,  dad." 

"No,  not  that  exactly.     That  's  only  his  way  in 

220 


The  Yellow  Van 

the  country— passing  you  with  his  coach  and  his 
grinning  grooms  in  livery,  as  if  he  invited  you  to 
take  it  or  leave  it,  the  whole  turnout.  But  in  busi- 
ness he  rubs  his  hands.  He  treated  me  like  a  cus- 
tomer, and  was  as  sleek  as  if  I  had  come  to  buy  a 
necktie.  His  table  is  his  counter,  where  it  's  not  his 
'social  board.'  Polly,  I  detest  that  man!" 

Mary  thought  she  had  the  whole  story  now,  but 
she  was  woefully  in  error.  He  was  still  keeping  back 
something  that  he  would  have  died  rather  than  tell 
her.  It  was  nothing  less  than  the  gentlest  of  all  pos- 
sible hints,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Kisbye,  that  every- 
thing might  be  arranged  if  the  master  of  Liddicot 
Manor  would  look  favorably  on  the  money-lender's 
pretensions  to  Mary 's  hand.  Elusive  as  it  was  meant 
to  be,  it  was  still  plain  to  the  father's  excited  sus- 
ceptibilities and  quickened  apprehension  of  danger 
to  his  house.  He  had  risen  in  inexpressible  disgust, 
and  made  haste  for  the  door  without  another  word. 

In  truth,  the  interview  was  Mr.  Kisbye 's  oppor- 
tunity, and,  though  it  had  taken  him  by  surprise, 
he  had  done  his  best  to  make  the  most  of  it.  He 
was  in  no  hurry  to  be  identified  with  Claude  Vava- 
sour, and  he  had  hoped  that  his  communications 
with  the  squire  would  for  some  time  longer  be  con- 
fined to  correspondence.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was 
indifferent  to  the  accident  of  the  discovery.  It  was 
necessarily  Captain  Liddicot 's  secret,  and,  though 
he  had  his  own  reasons  for  silence,  it  might  at  any 
moment  become  common  property.  Yet,  having 
the  squire  face  to  face  with  him  for  the  first  time 

221 


The  Yellow  Van 

in  their  lives,  Kisbye  thought  he  could  afford  to  give 
a  glimpse  of  his  hand.  He  had  lent  freely  to  the 
spendthrift  son,  on  poor  security,  and  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  he  could  never  hope  to  see  his  money 
back.  But  he  was  willing  to  pay  for  his  pleasures; 
and  the  dreary  gospel  in  which  he  had  been  reared 
taught  him  that  even  this  beautiful  girl  might  not 
be  unattainable  by  money  wisely  invested  in  the  em- 
barrassments of  a  falling  house.  He  despised  her 
father.  His  civility,  as  the  old  man  had  surmised, 
was  due  merely  to  his  sense  of  duty  as  a  shopkeeper. 
In  the  country  he  held  himself  as  good  a  magnate 
as  the  best,  and  he  meant  to  lord  it  with  them,  and 
over  them,  before  he  had  done. 

"Polly,  Polly!"  groaned  the  squire,  as  their  cab 
still  kept  up  its  soothing  perambulations,  ''he  '11 
get  to  Allonby  one  day,  mark  my  words!  That 
brute  is  the  new  landed  interest:  the  Liddicot  mil- 
lennium coming  to  its  fag-end.  His  office  was  hung 
with  auctioneers'  bills,  as  though  he  had  half  Eng- 
land in  the  market.  What  do  you  think  of  this  for 
a  crack  of  doom?  'Sutherland,  Scotland.  For  sale, 
by  private  bargain,  the  Island  Kingdom  of  Tillee. 
Winter  shooting.  Splendid  golf-links,'  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  A  kingdom !  Most  likely  for  some 
American.  By  the  way,  when  will  that  young  spark 
be  here?" 

"He  's  here  already,  father.  There  's  his  motor 
on  the  other  side  of  the  square." 

"I  can't  do  with  him  to-day.  We  '11  go  home  by 
train." 

222 


The  Yellow  Van 

Mary  said,  "Very  well,"  and  looked  intensely 
wretched.  That  was  quite  enough  for  her  father. 
In  five  minutes  more  they  had  transferred  them- 
selves and  their  slender  hand-baggage— the  rest  had 
been  sent  on  by  train— to  the  shining  car,  and  were 
picking  their  way  through  the  London  labyrinth 
to  a  great  main  road. 


223 


XXV 


RTHUR  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong,  but  took  no  notice 
of  it.  His  good  breeding  never 
failed,  and  he  made  short  work  of 
his  salutations,  as  befitted  the  oc- 
casion. Besides,  he  was  his  own 
steersman,  and  for  a  good  half-hour  he  enjoyed  the 
full  benefit  of  the  rule  against  superfluous  speech 
with  the  man  at  the  wheel.  He  had  not  forgotten, 
however,  before  starting,  to  make  all  taut  for  his 
visitors,  and  particularly  for  the  lady.  "When  we 
get  the  way  on,"  he  said  to  Mary,  "it  may  blow 
half  a  gale."  So  he  abounded  in  practical  sugges- 
tions as  to  veils  and  wraps  and  tresses  struggling 
to  be  free.  His  own  outfit  was  simple  in  the  extreme, 
and  the  girl  was  thankful  to  him  that  he  forbore 
goggles  and  a  leather  jacket.  The  squire  suffered 
himself  to  be  rigged  for  rough  weather  without  a 
word.  It  was  a  new  experience  for  both  of  them, 
for  him  especially,  and  he  had  his  misgivings.  He 
might  have  said,  with  old  Sam  Johnson,  when  they 
talked  of  conceivable  travel  at  something  over  ten 
miles  an  hour:  "Sir,  it  would  be  impossible;  you 
could  not  breathe."  They  had  forgotten  that. 
The  horse  traffic  of  the  London  streets  did  not 

224 


The  Yellow  Van 

appear  to  like  the  looks  of  them.  Mr.  Gooding  con- 
siderately gave  it  time  to  correct  first  impressions 
by  going  at  a  crawl.  Then,  as  they  reached  the  sub- 
urbs, he  put  on  the  pace. 

"Oh!"  said  Mary.  "Ugh!"  said  the  squire. 
Earth  seemed  to  come  rushing  at  them  with  intent  to 
do  grievous  bodily  harm,  but  only  to  get  tossed  into 
the  background  for  its  pains,  as  so  much  refuse  of 
picturesque  wonder.  Its  villages,  turrets,  steeples, 
and  wayfaring  folk  were  whirling,  whirling,  whirling 
past,  from  an  infinite  of  things  that  endure  forever, 
to  an  infinite  of  things  that  were.  The  lazy  teams 
seemed  as  trotters  trying  to  break  the  record.  The 
very  policemen  on  point  duty  were  in  the  movement. 
It  was  cosmic  motion  realized  to  sense,  and  for  the 
first  time.  "With  the  best  of  railway-cars  the  vault 
of  heaven  is  not  in  the  race.  Even  a  gallop  was  out 
of  the  comparison.  One  had  to  work  too  much  in 
partnership  with  the  horse  for  the  sense  of  pure 
effortless  cleavage  of  the  air.  The  motor-car  is  per- 
haps a  godsend  for  those  of  us  who  are  too  deep- 
rooted  in  the  idea  of  the  stability  of  things.  It  is 
a  vastly  more  exhilarating  suggestion  of  the  earth's 
dance  than  the  pendulum  and  the  sanded  floor. 

For  the  gray-haired  senior  it  marked  an  end  of 
the  old  leisurely  picturesque  of  travel,  and  brought 
in  a  new  one  of  landscape  by  lime-light  flash.  Soon 
they  were  in  Buckinghamshire,  that  second  garden  of 
England ;  in  its  dignified  lenity  of  tone,  a  proof  after 
Woollett  touched  into  color  and  life.  Venerable 
Aylesbury,  which  he  knew,  as  matter  of  historic  evi- 

225 


The  Yellow  Van 

dence,  had  endured  for  centuries,  passed  him,  in  an 
instant,  out  of  nothingness  back  into  it  again.  Spires 
that  might  have  been  Oxford  seen  from  Bicester 
glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  by 
to  the  common  doom.  For  the  first  fifteen  minutes 
of  it  he  was  sulky ;  in  the  second  he  began  to  feel  that 
he  would  lower  the  fines  in  cases  of  this  description 
before  the  bench;  at  the  third  he  beamed  like  a 
happy  child.  All  his  troubles,  including  Kisbye,  had 
gone  to  limbo  with  hamlet  and  town,  the  rushing 
wind  of  things  carrying  freshness  and  healing  to 
the  innermost  nerves  of  the  brain.  Hurrah  for  the 
latest  life  of  the  road !  When  will  the  doctors  codify 
it  into  a  treatment  for  half  the  worries  of  our  lot? 

Mary  dared  not  confess  to  herself  the  ecstasy  she 
felt.  She  looked  wistful  with  delight.  Poor  child ! 
she  was  at  the  budding  age  when  we  begin  to  realize 
the  fullness  and  the  glory  of  the  inheritance  of  sensa- 
tion into  which  we  have  been  born.  Yet  she  had  her 
doubts,  inspired,  perhaps,  by  ascetic  teachings  of 
Mr.  Bascomb  entirely  foreign  to  her  nature.  Was 
it  right  to  feel  so  intensely  alive  ?  She  dreaded  this 
arrow-flight  through  space,  as  sometimes  she  dreaded 
the  very  organ-peals  and  the  quired  hymns,  lest  they 
should  carry  her  to  heights  of  presumption  that 
might,  one  day,  measure  only  depths  of  spiritual 
fall.  Was  not  this  rapture  of  physical  being  some- 
thing to  be  watched  and  curbed  before  it  made  her 
the  bond-slave  of  sense?  It  might  be  rash  to  feel 
such  mastery  over  things  in  such  a  world. 

' '  Too  much  pace  for  you  ? ' '  inquired  Mr.  Gooding, 

226 


The  Yellow  Van 

considerately.  He  knew  that  he  was  going  too  fast 
and  that  he  owed  amends  to  the  outraged  law.  He 
was  a  sure  hand;  it  is  impossible  to  make  a  better 
excuse  for  him.  He  steered  for  a  fine,  as  others 
sometimes  ride  for  a  fall.  He  simply  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  giving  her  a  happy  scare. 

"No;  only  too  much  'don't  care.'  '  And  with 
quick,  impulsive  finger  she  checked  his  make-believe 
attempt  to  slacken  down. 

"Sorry  to  be  alive,  perhaps?"  he  asked,  his  twink- 
ling eye  still  set  straight  ahead. 

"No ;  only  sorry  not  to  be  sorry.  I—  "  The  wind 
caught  the  rest. 

Thereafter  she  scarcely  spoke;  but  the  deepened 
pink  of  her  exquisite  complexion,  the  fire  of  her 
glance,  made  words  a  superfluity.  The  run  was,  in 
the  main,  a  mere  inter  jectional  transaction  from  first 
to  last.  Another  benefit  of  this  matchless  invention 
is  that  it  tends  to  prove  the  futility  of  utterance. 

For  this  reason  it  precludes  even  expostulation 
on  the  part  of  the  justly  scandalized  wayfarer.  As 
the  terror  threatens  him  at  short  notice,  he  naturally 
postpones  the  assertion  of  his  rights  under  the  High- 
ways Act  until  he  has  reached  cover.  When  he  has 
reached  it  the  terror  is  out  of  range,  and  reproof 
would  be  a  waste  of  words.  There  can  be  no  im- 
pressiveness  in  mere  fag-ends  of  objurgation  strug- 
gling in  the  teeth  of  a  hostile  wind.  The  very  barn- 
door fowls  see  the  folly  of  protest.  They  hold  out 
longer  than  their  superiors,  and  the  lord  of  the  harem 
preserves  the  majesty  of  his  strut  until  the  thing 

227 


The  Yellow  Van 

is  almost  upon  him.  Then,  with  a  screech  which  is 
still  but  horror,  he  signals  the  sauve  qui  pent,  sup- 
plementing an  all  too  lingering  hop  with  a  flutter 
that  costs  him  some  of  the  glories  of  his  tail.  If  a 
reproach  comes  afterward,  it  is  only  in  the  form 
of  a  quavering  screech  of  remonstrance,  as  from 
man  to  man,  against  the  brutality— to  say  nothing 
of  the  fatuous  want  of  respect  for  a  common  interest 
of  domestic  supremacy — that  lowers  him  in  the  eyes 
of  his  womankind. 

At  Stratford-on-Avon  father  and  daughter  had 
perforce  to  alight  to  catch  a  cross-country  train  for 
Liddicot.  The  squire  was  profuse  in  thanks.  Mary 
simply  pressed  the  young  fellow's  hand,  and  mur- 
mured, "So  soon!"  It  was,  in  substance,  a  prayer 
to  Apollo  for  one  more  lift  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun. 


228 


XXVI 


R.  GOODING  himself  had  to  stop 
for  a  fresh  supply  of  oil  and  for 
some  needful  adjustments  that 
promised  to  detain  him  for  half  an 
hour.  It  was  against  his  will.  He 
had  come,  not  exactly  to  see  middle 
England  in  a  day,  but  only  to  survey  what  he  hoped 
to  see,  later  on,  in  a  month  or  a  year.  It  was  but  a 
mode  of  looking  at  the  map.  He  wanted  the  lie  of 
the  land  in  actual  vision,  as  he  already  had  it  in  his 
reading  wide  and  deep.  And,  for  that  matter,  no 
length  of  time  could  fully  serve  here.  The  church, 
the  winding  river,  the  ancient  bridge,  the  broad, 
bland  land,  which  a  thunder-storm  will  touch  with 
terror  and  a  burst  of  sunshine  recover  to  hope  and 
joy— what  are  they  but  hints  of  a  secret  of  the  all- 
sufficiency  of  genius  that  none  of  us  will  ever 
fathom?  Out  of  this,  without  further  aid  from  na- 
ture, came  the  cave  of  Cymbeline,  perhaps,  the 
beetling  rock  of  Lear;  for  Dover  cliff  is  but  a  legend 
—the  fairy  wood  of  the  ' '  Dream. ' '  The  rest  is  pure 
chemistry  of  the  brain,  or  perhaps,  as  they  fable  it, 
some  earlier  soul-birth  with  the  universe  for  its 
range. 
Yet  some  is  still  here  to-day,  as,  for  those  who 

229 


The  Yellow  Van 

know  how  to  see  it,  it  was  three  centuries  ago.  The 
wench  Audrey,  a  mere  speck  of  white  in  the  deepen- 
ing twilight,  still  heads  homeward  the  lumbering 
kine.  The  patient  creatures,  the  horned  impact  of 
which,  in  rage,  might  be  measured  by  a  very  respect- 
able figure  in  tons,  groan  with  anguish  because  a 
slip  of  a  girl  bars  their  passage  with  a  twig;  and 
matter  owns  its  allegiance  even  to  this  humblest 
manifestation  of  mind.  A  fellow  at  road-making, 
who  touched  his  hat  vaguely,  as  though  to  propitiate 
mankind  at  large,  was  Costard  fallen  on  less  cheer- 
ful days.  Another,  in  the  modern  blue  of  his  office, 
who  solemnly  demanded  Mr.  Gooding's  name  and 
address,  though  the  vehicle  was  then  demurely  travel- 
ing at  a  pace  within  the  act,  was  not  far  to  seek. 

" Fancy  I  could  name  you  without  asking,"  was 
the  reply.  ''You  are  Constable  Dull  of  blessed  mem- 
ory, and  you  serve  Ferdinand,  King  of  Navarre. ' ' 

"Young  joker,"  returned  the  officer,  "none  of 
your  lip." 

Unchangeable  England!  Nowhere,  except  of 
course  in  Navarre,  is  the  policeman  so  much  the 
mere  monitor  of  the  evil-doer,  looking  down  on  him, 
indeed,  from  cerulean  heights,  yet  still  ready  to 
admit  that  he,  too,  once  trod  earth  and  its  miry  ways. 
This  one  drew  no  sword,  flourished  no  truncheon. 
He  simply  made  an  entry  in  his  note-book,  and  re- 
sumed his  round. 

On  and  forever  onward !  A  rush  of  eight  miles  by 
a  perfect  road:  a  mighty  fortress  with  foundations 
in  the  solid  rock,  a  wide,  wide  stretch  of  battlement 

230 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  tower,  shining  plate-glass,  port-holes  that  are 
mere  mysteries  of  shade,  and  a  huge  flag  that  now 
only  dominates  a  landscape  where  it  once  dominated 
a  land— Warwick.  The  rush  continued  for  five  miles 
more,  and  other  towers,  red  in  the  sun  for  all  the 
waste  of  years,  and  as  wide  in  their  sweep  as  the  cir- 
cuit of  a  walled  city— Kenilworth.  About  as  far 
again,  and  then  three  spires  on  the  sky-line,  and 
thrice  three  times  as  many  factory  chimneys— 
Coventry.  Old  gabled  houses  here,  flanked  by  new 
emporiums;  tramways  in  the  winding  streets  of  the 
"ride";  above  them  telegraph  wires  from  which  a 
second  Peeping  Tom  might  flash  his  secret  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  in  time  for  the  evening 
editions.  England  still,  the  past  and  the  present 
inextricable— at  once  a  patchwork  and  a  growth. 
Creeping  disentanglement  for  the  machine,  then  an- 
other rush,  and  a  smear  that  means  a  mining  village. 
Compensation  at  hand  in  George  Eliot's  country.  A 
dip  in  the  road — Griff,  the  home,  snug  in  its  hollow, 
and  lovely  still.  A  rise,  and  the  turning  to  castel- 
lated Arbury,  the  Cheverel  Manor  of  "Mr.  Gilfil's 
Love-Story. "  Chilvers  Coton  (Shepperton)  beyond, 
and  then  Nuneaton  (Milby  or  nothing),  the  girl- 
hood's haunt.  Clear  of  all  that,  after  a  good  run, 
the  Ashby-de-la-Zouch  of  Mary  Stuart's  captivity, 
and  of  "Ivanhoe."  Next,  the  Derby  of  Celt  and 
Roman,  Saxon  and  Dane,  of  the  Pretender's  march, 
and  Heaven  and  history  only  know  what  beside. 
Mr.  Gooding  is  able  to  give  full  fifteen  minutes  to 
its  memories,  for  the  machine  calls  a  halt  for  more 

231 


The  Yellow  Van 

fuel.  It  is  hardly  enough  for  the  depth  and  breadth 
of  it  in  dateless  time.  Roads  that  the  legions  once 
trod,  especially  the  legion  recruited  in  Spain,  with 
many  a  brown  cheek  and  flashing  eye  in  the  sur- 
viving peasantry  to  tell  the  tale.  Ipstones  hard  by, 
with  its  townsfolk,  British  to  this  day  in  every  es- 
sential of  race  type  for  soul  and  body— keen  eyes, 
black  hair,  manner  that  is  all  nerves:  some  tribe 
that  escaped  exterminating  conquest— the  Corvi,  per- 
haps— by  the  accident  of  a  river  full  of  ravines, 
roads  all  tracks  and  byways,  a  sort  of  British  Trans- 
vaal. The  Corvi  keep  shop  there  now,  immune  from 
the  tourist  as  from  the  Roman,  but  ready,  behind 
their  counters,  to  make  the  modern  invader  pay 
for  all. 

A  long  swerve  to  the  right,— rather  a  blunder  of 
Mr.  Gooding's,— and  Ollerton  as  a  starting-point  for 
the  dukeries.  You  may  cover  them  with  a  hat, 
though  it  must  be  a  Quaker's  of  the  old  school.  The 
agent's  house,  castellated,  if  you  please,  to  mark 
his  state,  a  placid  stream  banked  with  dense  trees, 
bushes,  and  osiers,  and  exquisite  in  its  windings  of 
luminous  shade.  Then  Thoresby  Park,  a  dukery, 
though  now  the  seat  of  an  earldom ;  and  in  the  dis- 
tance the  manor,  a  mass  of  modern  masonry  seen 
through  the  glass,  but  softened  by  the  blue  haze 
into  perfect  keeping  with  the  sylvan  scenery.  Work- 
men's houses  a  picture,  like  everything  else  on  the 
estate— Arcadia  in  a  ring-fence.  Up  hill  and  down 
dale,  the  road  stretching  to  the  horizon ;  but  courage ! 
and  presently— Clumber.  Magnificent  glades  of 

232 


The  Yellow  Van 

woodland,  deer,  red  j(and  proud  of  it),  bracken  to 
your  waist.  In  a  clearing  an  old  inn,  with  its  sign 
the  arms  of  the  "family,"  "Loyaute  n'a  honte,"  as 
Mr.  Gooding  makes  it  out  in  the  rush,  and  the  ribbon 
of  the  Garter  conspicuous  in  the  decorative  scheme. 
Hard  by,  one  of  the  gates  of  the  estate,  and  presently 
the  house,  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  deep  woods 
—Italian  in  the  general  scheme,  and  a  mere  thing 
of  yesterday,  being  less  than  a  century  and  a  half 
old.  Then  the  great  gate,  with  a  long,  long  avenue 
of  limes  as  exquisitely  trimmed  as  anything  at  Al- 
lonby.  Out  of  the  park  again,  by  another  gate  of 
weather-stained  stone,  and  now  the  road  to  Welbeck. 
Lodges,  the  trailing  growths  of  which  might  earn 
for  England  a  subtitle  of  the  Flowery  Land,  but 
little  life  of  man  or  beast  here  or  anywhere  else. 
Now  and  then  a  laborer;  now  and  then  a  game- 
keeping  giant,  white-bearded,  perhaps,  and  red- 
nosed,  each  effect  ever  keeping  pace  with  the  other 
in  intensity.  But  the  men  are  rare,  the  villages  rarer 
still.  It  is  yet  an  unpeopled  land,  with  scores  of 
square  miles  waiting  for  effective  settlement,  vast 
wastes  of  beauty  in  virgin  forest  or  cultivated  park. 
Welbeck  at  last,  an  ordered  scheme  of  grandeur  like 
the  rest,  massive,  endless,  and  finally  burrowing  un- 
derground in  architectural  caves  of  Kentucky,  as 
wondrous  as  anything  above.  The  whole  region,  like 
distant  Allonby  itself,  manifestly  a  government 
within  a  government,  with  England  lying  outside. 

To  Worksop  Manor  now,  a  dukery  still  by  cour- 
tesy, as  having  once  been  the  seat  of  a  duke.    Thence, 

233 


The  Yellow  Van 

quitting  the  charmed  circle,  a  long  run  for  Chats- 
worth  imperative  for  Mr.  Gooding,  though  his  ma- 
chine begins  to  pant  for  rest.  But  he  calls  on  it,  and 
it  answers,  and  whirls  him  to  new  scenes,  one  of  them 
a  lurid  city  of  Dis,  on  the  edge  of  the  coal  region, 
turreted  with  chimneys  belching  fire  in  the  broad 
day,  its  river  of  hot  water  from  the  works  steam- 
ing to  the  sky.  Unwashed  gangs  on  the  roads,  day- 
shifts  going  home,  after  relief  by  night-shifts,  as  yet 
shining  from  soap  and  towel,  who  are  deep,  deep 
under  the  soil— a  perpetual  motion  of  labor  to  feed 
the  mighty  estate  above.  It  is  a  ducal  colliery,  and 
its  grime  is  soon  effaced  by  the  beauties  of  the  valley 
that  lead  to  the  last  great  house  on  the  list.  Wild 
moors,  grim  gorges,  hill-slopes  of  purple  heather, 
with  patches  of  grass  showing  through,  and  of  gray 
primeval  stone  polled  with  undying  mosses;  beet- 
ling rocks  with  wooded  summits ;  streams  crossed  by 
rustic  bridges,  and  with  villages  to  match— in  one 
word,  every  imaginable  beauty  of  hill  and  dale  to 
atone  for  the  valley  of  doom  we  have  just  left.  A 
wayside  inn  now,  with  a  "Devonshire  Arms"  to 
warn  us  in  whose  country  we  are.  Then  the  park, 
a  calm  as  of  Eden,  and  more  red  deer,  facing  round 
at  the  new  enemy  of  sylvan  peace  to  cover  the  flight 
of  their  hinds.  Chatsworth  at  last,  the  great  house 
seen  through  an  opening  in  the  immense  circuit  of 
leafage  by  which  it  is  screened,  and  with  a  river 
flowing  in  its  front.  No  time  to  pause  now  for  the 
belated  traveler ;  but  he  well  knows  what  lies  beyond. 
A  place  that  starts  fair  with  a  mention  in  Doomsday, 

234 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  a  product  of  all  the  centuries  since  in  planning, 
building,  collecting  for  art  and  luxury  and  the  pride 
of  life.  Building  and  rebuilding.  Tower  added  to 
tower,  and  hall  to  hall,  age  by  age.  Wren  one  of  its 
architects;  the  Scottish  queen  one  of  its  prisoners. 
In  happier  times  a  school  of  landscape-gardening 
surpassing  the  inventions  of  Eastern  fable.  A  cloy- 
ing mass  of  wonders  in  which  a  man  not  to  the  man- 
ner born  of  the  best  in  life  might  hardly  hope  to 
sleep  a  wink  for  the  throbbing  sense  of  the  wonders 
of  his  lot. 

But  there  is  no  time  to  linger.  Daylight  is  begin- 
ning to  wane,  and  miles  yet  lie  between  the  traveler 
and  the  place  to  which  he  has  telegraphed  for  rooms. 
So,  doubling  on  his  route  again,  he  makes  for  supper 
and  bed  at  the  same  pace  as  before,  with  only  his 
blazing  lamps  and  the  guide-posts  to  show  the  way. 
They  are  hardly  enough  for  a  man  who  does  not 
know  it  already.  The  gloom  deepens ;  the  very  mile- 
stones are  now  mute ;  the  great  silence  begins,  and  a 
void  of  miles  of  country  without  a  single  wayfarer. 
To  make  matters  worse,  the  machine  strikes  work, 
and  for  a  full  hour  its  driver  fusses  and  fumes  over 
it  without  result.  It  moves  again  at  last,  but  slowly, 
and  as  though  only  under  his  own  compulsion  of 
want  of  rest  and  refreshment. 

And  then  a  new  trouble.  A  certain  sickening  soft- 
ness in  the  sense  of  motion  warns  Mr.  Gooding  that 
he  has  left  the  road.  He  alights  in  haste,  to  find 
himself  on  turf,  and  in  a  leafy  lane,  with  a  timbered 
glade  beyond  that  may  be  the  entrance  to  an  en- 

235 


The  Yellow  Van 

chanted  wood.  •  He  has  clean  lost  his  road,  and,  by 
way  of  a  call  for  guidance,  he  tries  a  blast  on  his 
bugle-horn,  now  hoarser  than  ever  with  the  labors 
of  the  journey,  and  instinctively  raises  the  wild  war- 
whoop  of  his  college  cry.  This  wholly  new  sensation 
for  Sherwood  Forest  wins  sympathetic,  though 
hardly  helpful,  notice  from  the  rabbits  in  frantic 
scamper  across  the  line  of  light.  A  second  and  a 
third  summons  have  but  the  same  fortune;  but  a 
final  effort  is  answered  by  a  shout  in  the  distance, 
and  a  responsive  light  from  the  blackness  of  the 
forest  belt.  At  closer  quarters  it  is  the  wild  figure 
of  a  man  past  middle  age,  waving  a  lantern  from  the 
tail-board  of  a  covered  vehicle. 

11  Where  am  I?" 

" In  Sherwood  Forest." 

"Robin  Hood's  country?" 

"Where  else,  if  you  expect  an  answer  to  the  bugle- 
horn?" 

"The  way  to  Edwinstowe,  if  you  please." 

"No  guiding  you  that  gate  within  an  hour  of  mid- 
night ;  but  you  may  come  up  here,  if  you  don't  mind 
roughing  it." 

"Where?" 

' '  In  the  yellow  van. ' ' 


236 


XXVII 


ONVERSATIONAL  preliminaries 
are  naturally  brief  when  one  has 
the  appetite  of  an  ogre.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  Mr.  Gooding  was  at 
work  on  the  squarest  meal  the  van 
could  afford,  with  his  host  com- 
placently looking  on. 

It  was  not  a  bad  meal.  The  little  larder  produced 
pressed  beef  and  pickles,  a  slice  of  tongue,  a  loaf  of 
brown  bread,  a  bottle  of  stout.  A  lamp  threw  a 
roof  ray  on  host  and  guest.  The  van  stood  in  deep 
shadow.  Seen  from  the  distance,  they  would  have 
looked  well— a  bit  of  the  void  of  darkness  redeemed 
to  comfort  and  light. 

It  was  another  lecturer  this  time.  Three-score  and 
five  was  about  his  age.  His  high  cheek-bones,  round- 
ish head,  keen  glances  flashing  through  the  mere  slits 
of  his  eyes,  even  the  crisp,  curling  hair,  were  all  so 
many  signs  of  one  about  equally  ready  for  the  word 
and  the  blow.  No  fear  of  the  latter  just  now.  He 
was  evidently  in  his  most  expansive  mood  as  he 
watched  his  guest. 

' '  Redmond  's  my  name,  if  anybody  wants  to  know 
it.  'Jack  Redmond'— 'Old  Redmond.'  " 

"My  card  by  and  by,"  returned  the  wayfarer, 
helping  himself  to  another  slice  of  beef. 

237 


The  Yellow  Van 

"You  're  my  sort,"  said  the  host.  "Don't  spare 
it,  though  it  's  a  fellow-citizen  o'  yours.  So  's  the 
tongue,  for  that  matter,  and  the  peaches  that  's  com- 
ing next.  We  've  left  off  learning  how  to  feed  our- 
selves in  this  country.  All  fellow-citizens." 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Mr.  Gooding 's  answer 
came: 

"How  do  you  know  about  fellow-citizens?" 

"You  're  so  careful  in  sounding  your  words." 

"Now  I  '11  push  on,"  said  Mr.  Gooding,  as  he  rose 
to  fill  his  pipe. 

' '  Could  n  't  think  of  it ;  you  'd  never  find  the  way, 
and  I  'm  too  tired  to  show  you.  Stay  to  oblige  me ; 
and  I  '11  stand  a  drop  of  something  short." 

Arthur  looked  round. 

' '  Oh,  we  've  got  a  spare  bedroom, ' '  said  the  other, 
proudly,  "and  I  '11  fix  you  up  in  a  twinkling,  if 
you  '11  bring  your  rug  inside." 

"Done,"  laughed  Mr.  Gooding,  without  further 
ado.  And  he  went  out  and  made  the  machine  com- 
fortable under  a  light  cloth. 

"Sleepy?"  inquired  Eedmond. 

"Never  a  bit.  I  could  go  on  all  night  now— talk- 
ing, motoring,  anything  you  like." 

"Make  it  talking.  I  have  n't  exchanged  a  blessed 
word  with  anybody  all  day  long." 

"The  van  's  an  old  acquaintance.  Never  saw  you 
before. ' ' 

"No;  I  'm  not  the  regular  man.  T'  other  's  ill. 
Labor  o'  love  with  me,  but  sometimes  I  pine  for 
company.  I  thought  you  might  be  a  happy  beggar- 

238 


The  Yellow  Van 

man  on  tramp,  and  we  'd  have  a  rouse  to  pass  the 
hours. ' ' 

''Sorry  to  disappoint." 

"You  '11  do  as  well,  far  's  I  can  judge.  They  're 
good  company,  though,  the  roadside  men.  Lord ! 
what  they  see  and  say  nothin'  about!  It  'u'd  fill  a 
book.  But  you  Ve  got  to  know  where  to  find  'em. 
Wager  I  'd  lay  my  hand  on  two  or  three  in  a  cave 
by  the  roadside  not  so  far  from  here.  All  snug,  and 
always  a  box  of  matches,  and  sometimes  a  bit  o' 
victual  left  for  the  next  man.  And  the  '  county  con- 
stab,  '  if  you  please,  none  the  wiser.  Ah,  it  's  a  fine 
life  in  the  summer-time." 

The  pipes  were  well  alight  by  this  time,  and  the 
drop  of  something  short  had  long  been  on  the  board. 
Arthur  pulled  quietly  and  felt  good.  The  trees, 
with  the  light  breeze  stirring  in  their  branches,  were 
evidently  in  the  same  mood.  The  rest  was  silence, 
as  though  all  living  things  were  stilled  by  terror  of 
the  lamp. 

"Sherwood  Forest,  I  think  you  said,"  murmured 
the  young  man,  dreamily. 

The  old  one  was  in  no  hurry  to  reply.  Hurry 
was  manifestly  out  of  the  question  in  such  environ- 
ment. 

"'Hey,  jolly  Robin!'" 
he  observed  at  length. 

"  'Hoe,  jolly  Robin! 

Hey,  jolly  Robin  Hood!'  " 
returned  Mr.  Gooding,  with  much  solemnity. 

' '  Good  boy !  D '  ye  know  it,  too  ? ' '  cried  the  other, 

239 


The  Yellow  Van 

jumping  up  to  pluck  a  pocket  edition  of  the  "Bal- 
lads" from  the  library  shelf. 

"Why  not?"  said  Gooding. 

"Will  ye  cap  verses?"  said  the  other,  with  grow- 
ing excitement.  "To  think  of  it— and  you  all  the 
way  from  the  other  side!  " 

' '  Why  not  ? ' '  said  the  other,  again.  ' '  I,  too,  have 
sat  at  good  men 's  feasts. ' ' 

"Only  to  think  of  it!  It  's  my  Bible  I  'm  hand- 
ling now— Kobin,  who  stood  up  for  all  the  weak 
things  of  life  against  the  strong  things!  A  strong 
man  on  the  right  side." 

"  'All  wemen  wershep  he,'  ' 
said  the  guest. 

"Your  hand  again,"  said  the  host,  "wherever  you 
come  from. 

'He  was  a  good  out  lawe 
And  dyde  pore  men  much  god.' 
The  poor  against  the  rich,  the  laborer  against  the 
lord. 

'But  loke  ye  do  no  housebonde  harm 
That  tylleth  with  his  plough. ' 

Robin,  the  first  that  struck  for  us  after  the  long 
night.  The  whole  burden  of  it  a  protest  against 
the  cruel  forest  laws,  a  part  of  the  land  laws  that 
have  left  bonny  England  where  it  is  to-day.  Cap, 
cap,  and  be  hanged  to  ye!  It  's  my  happy  night!" 

"  'Hey,  jolly  Kobin!'  " 
said  Mr.  Gooding,  again. 

"Right  again,  youngster.  That  's  the  spirit  of  it. 
Jolly  Robin.  Grin  and  ply  your  cudgel.  Keep  a 

240 


The  Yellow  Van 

good  heart.     I  can't  do  that.     I  waste  myself  m 
rages.    T '  other  one  was  a  hero.    I  am  but  as  I  am. ' ' 
"Yet  you  're  camped  in  the  greenwood? 
'There  he  herde  the  notes  small 
Of  byrdes  mery  syngynge. '  ' : 
"Aye,  but  you  're  a  crony,  and  no  mistake !"  cried 
his  admiring  senior.    ' '  Just  one  drop  more  ? ' ' 

"Thank  you.  My  favorite  tipple  is  fresh  air,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"It  's  all  in  Robin— Shakspere's  mate,  and  a 
greater,  for  he  sang  in  deeds.  You  11  find  every- 
thing in  that  little  book.  He  was  a  wise  leech,  with 
his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  world.  Look  at  him 
turning  butcher,  and  breaking  the  trust  with  their 
own  tool  of  a  cutting  price. 

'For  he  sold  more  meat  for  one  peny 
Than  others  could  do  for  three. ' 
A  frolic,  and  the  fun  on  the  side  of  the  hungry  man. 
Ah,  it  was  a  merrier  England  when  the  nobodies  had 
the  last  laugh.    Most  of  it  's  sheer  allegory,  if  you 
know  how  to  take  it.     The  fight  with  the  giants— 
nothing  of  the  sort:  a  fight  with  the  monopolists. 
And  when  the  biggest  comes  down: 

'  So  from  his  shoulders  he  's  cut  his  head, 
Which  on  the  ground  did  fall, 
And  grumbling  sore  at  Robin  Hood, 
To  tie  so  dealt  withal.' 
Isn't  it  just  like  'em— never  satisfied?" 
"Seems  a  little  exaggerated,"  said  Mr.  Gooding. 
"Well,  well,  well,  well!     Grant  me  a  miracle  or 
two  for  my  Scripture  (  since  you  'd  claim  it  for  yours. 

24I 


The  Yellow  Van 

Suppose  his  full  range  at  the  butts  was  not  exactly 
the  measured  mile,  as  they  say  it  was." 

"Oh,  that  's  all  right.  They  give  it  as  a  story  of 
the  longbow." 

''Anyhow,  he  shot  on  our  side,  and  we  want  an- 
other champion.  Who  '11  stand  up  for  us  now?  As 
fast  as  'the  million'  make  the  money  the  millionaire 
fobs  it.  Does  it  every  time.  Just  a  turn  of  the  hand 
like  the  spot  stroke.  Lord,  will  it  ever  be  barred !  I 
sometimes  wonder  how  it  's  all  going  to  end." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Mr.  Gooding,  knocking  out 
his  ashes  for  a  refill. 

"Which  is  as  much  as  to  say,  'Trust  in  Provi- 
dence '  ?  You  may  be  right.  P  'r  'ps  it  is  n  't  a  matter 
for  champions,  and  it  '11  settle  itself,  in  the  long  run, 
by  getting  worse  so  that  it  may  get  better.  It  's  a 
growth,  and  we  must  give  it  its  chance.  Let  it  work 
itself  to  a  flower,  poisonous  or  other,  and  then  it  '11 
rot  of  its  own  accord.  Dollar-hunting,  land-grabbing 
its  own  cure— p'r'aps  that  's  the  hope.  It  can't  last 
forever.  They  're  getting  sick— sick  of  their  own 
dismal  trade. 

"Beautiful  story,  that,  of  one  of  the  mightiest  of 
your  Yankee  hunters— did  you  ever  strike  it?  When 
he  'd  made  more  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with,  he 
tried  to  unload  a  little,  just  to  get  breath,  in  a  kind 
of  grand  tour.  Special  cars  and  state-rooms  all  the 
way  along;  special  teams  to  whirl  him  about  in 
Europe;  special  guides,  couriers,  interpreters— the 
devil  knows  what.  At  last  they  got  him  to  Amster- 
dam, and  tried  to  show  him  the  pictures.  He  stood 

242 


The  Yellow  Van 

it  for  half  an  hour,  then  slipped  out  to  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, and  made  fifty  thousand  in  half  an  hour 
more. ' ' 

"Manifest  destiny,"  said  Mr.  Gooding. 

"No;  only  secret  itch.  A  case  for  the  doctors,  be- 
lieve me.  We  shall  live  to  see  'em  at  one  another's 
throats,  and  then  mankind  will  come  into  its  own 
again.  Ever  noticed  the  gnawing  envy  in  the  eye  of 
Five  Million  when  he  feels  that  Six  Million  looks 
on  him  like  'dirt'— the  hangdog  shame  of  him? 
Can't  abear  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  his  betters 
in  the  infernal  trade.  The  gradations  of  it!  Five 
Million  a  derision  to  Six,  and  a  loathing  to  Four,  and 
so  on  till  you  reach  the  things  that  live  in  the  mud.  I 
stood  outside  a  fashionable  restaurant  the  other  day, 
and  watched  two  men  in  the  street  peering  through 
the  crimson  curtains  at  a  party  picking  their  dainty 
way  through  a  five-pound  meal.  Give  you  my  word,  I 
thought  one  of  'em  would  have  fallen  down  and  wor- 
shiped. However,  to  be  fair,  t'  other  blasphemed." 

"They  '11  get  that  dinner  and  the  whole  earth 
soon  as  they  are  fit  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Gooding,  "but 
not  a  moment  before.  Tell  'em  to  hurry  up  over 
their  beer.  That  's  the  meaning  of  America." 

"Oh,"  groaned  the  old  man,  "we  all  thought  so 
once.  But  is  there  a  more  self-consciously  degraded 
thing  in  all  creation  than  the  American  poor  man? 
I  've  been  there  and  marked  his  pariah  shuffle  and 
his  downcast  eye." 

"Give  your  coffee  time  to  settle.  You  seem  to 
have  been  about  a  bit. ' ' 

243 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Everywhere,  specially  on  your  side— Pacific 
slope  before  you  were  born,  islands,  Australia.  Lord, 
Lord,  it  's  a  big  dot  of  a  world ! ' ' 

"And  all  built  on  pretty  much  the  same  plan,  eh  ? " 
said  Mr.  Gooding. 

"That  's  so;  devil  take  the  hindmost;  and  'How 
soon  can  I  get  out  of  it?'  about  the  wisest  thought 
you  can  start  with  when  you  're  born.  Really,  the 
burial  club  seems  to  be  the  only  reasonable  institu- 
tion. And  it  might  be  such  a  happy  family ! ' ' 

"Give  us  a  song,"  said  Mr.  Gooding. 

"What  '11  you  have— 'England  's  Going  Down  the 
Hill'?  Heard  it  from  a  gutter  in  a  slum,  sung  by 
the  composer." 

"It  's  such  a  fine  night,"  pleaded  the  guest. 

And  such  a  night  it  was.  The  glades,  where 
buskined  Marian  might  have  walked,  stretched  in 
every  direction  under  a  sky  luminous  with  stars. 
One  avenue  seemed  to  end  in  a  kind  of  amphitheater, 
a  conceivable  council-place  of  the  outlaw  band.  And 
here  and  there  was  a  great  swarth  of  shade  for 
hiding,  and  still,  no  doubt,  a  shelter  for  all  the 
tremulous  life  of  the  forest,  bending  ten  thousand 
thousand  pairs  of  eyes  on  the  glare  of  light  from 
the  van. 

"As  you  please,"  said  Redmond.  "And  what  's 
your  news  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  just  the  heart  of  England  in  a  lightning- 
flash.  It  's  that  or  nothing  for  the  tourist." 

"For  the  American  tourist." 

"Even  for  the  stars  themselves,   I  should  say. 

244 


The  Yellow  Van 

They  can't  see  much  of  us,  with  the  ball  in 
flight." 

"S'pose  that  's  why  they  never  interfere.  And 
what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Pretty  sight." 

"Bah!  You  holiday  people  don't  know  how  to 
look  at  a  landscape.  You  miss  all  the  devilment  of 
it.  If  only  you  did  know !  You  'd  see  the  villages 
in  all  their  little  infamies  under  their  greasy  smile. 
Mother  Ship  ton's,  the  secret-boozing  ken;  and  Mother 
Quickly 's,  that  's  worse.  They  're  not  even  good  in 
their  stagnation— only  goody  at  the  best.  How  can 
you  wonder?  They  've  got  so  little  for  idle  hands 
to  do.  And  so— well,  just  like  their  betters,  for  that 
matter,  and  for  the  same  reason.  It  is  n't  the  towns 
that  corrupt  them.  They  corrupt  the  towns,  taking 
their  wickedness  and  their  poverty  and  their  feck- 
lessness  up  to  market,  because  the  energies  behind 
them  can  find  no  healthy  outlet  at  home  in-  profitable 
toil.  A  fine  price  we  have  to  pay  for  your  hothouse 
'Beauties  of  England  and  Wales,'  with  all  the 
country-side  driven  by  a  kind  of  monster  conscrip- 
tion into  the  army  of  the  slums.  We  're  worth  some- 
thing better  than  to  make  a  holiday  for  Americans. ' ' 

He  dropped  his  bantering  tone,  and  flashed  out 
passionately : 

' '  Look  at  me,  ruined  by  farming ;  and  I  've  toiled 
like  a  slave  all  my  life.  Who  killed  Cock  Robin? 
Shall  I  tell  you?  The  English  land  system.  Here 
am  I  to-day  to  show  that  the  man  who  farms  straight 
and  farms  honest  can't  hope  to  make  a  living  out  of 

245 


The  Yellow  Van 

it  while  idle  ownership  claims  such  a  huge  share  of 
his  labor.  We  are  being  beat  by  the  foreigner  who 
works  for  himself  on  his  own  patch.  You  can't  keep 
all  this  wicked  luxury  of  landlord,  aye,  and  gentle- 
man farmer,  too,  out  of  one  pair  of  laborer's  hands. 
But  if  you  won 't  try,  there  's  always  plenty  that  will, 
in  the  struggle  for  a  crust.  Have  it  or  leave  it ;  and 
if  you  don't  like  it,  off  with  you  to  the  main  sewer 
of  London  town.  You  can't  live  and  thrive,  in- 
crease and  multiply,  here  without  the  good  leave  of 
your  betters;  and  they  won't  give  you  leave.  They 
want  the  land  for  a  pleasure-ground;  they  can  get 
their  incomes  somewhere  else.  Rural  England  is 
starved  for  lack  of  an  opening.  Blank  stagnation 
everywhere,  and  kept  so  by  word  of  command.  Try 
to  do  something  to  make  a  man  of  yourself,  and  see 
how  soon  they  '11  shunt  you  out  of  the  place.  Why 
do  your  cities  in  America  spring  up  in  a  night  and 
a  day  from  log  huts?  Because  every  man  's  free  to 
do  his  best.  There  is  n't  a  hamlet  in  England  but  's 
hag-ridden  by  some  'noble  house.'  That  's  what  your 
historian  Motley  meant  when  he  talked  of  the  fear- 
ful price  paid  by  the  English  people  for  the  parks, 
castles,  fisheries,  and  fox-huntings  of  its  'splendid 
aristocracy. ' 

' '  But  there, ' '  he  added,  with  a  bitter  laugh  at  his 
own  expense,  "what  's  the  use  of  talking?  I  'd  say 
pass  the  bottle,  and  forget  it  all,  if  I  was  a  man  of 
that  sort.  The  little  van  that  goes  up  and  down  to 
testify  against  it  takes  itself  seriously  enough;  but 
that  's  only  its  foolishness.  The  feudal  system  don't 

246 


The  Yellow  Van 

mind.  And  feudal  system  it  is,  alive  and  kicking  as 
fresh  as  ever  in  this  our  latest  growth  of  time.  For 
the  essence  of  the  accursed  thing  is  that  one  man  's 
the  property  of  another,  and  that  his  first  care  on 
coming  into  his  manhood  is  to  find  some  fellow- 
creature  to  kneel  to,  and,  laying  hand  in  hand,  say, 
'Please  take  possession  of  me.'  The  old  system  went 
from  man  to  man  until  it  reached  the  highest.  It  's 
perfect  to-day  as  between  peasant  and  farmer,  far- 
mer and  lord;  but  there  's  sometimes  a  break  when 
the  noble  owner  himself  belongs  to  a  money-lender 
or  to  a  queen  of  the  music-halls. 

"And  now,  youngster,  let  's  turn  in.  I  'm  tired, 
and  you  must  be  sleepy  after  this  rigmarole.  I  '11 
put  the  supper-things  outside,  and  attend  to  'em  in 
the  morning.  Would  you  mind  giving  me  a  lift  with 
the  linen-chest?  Thanks.  There  's  your  bed  on  the 
lid,  if  you  '11  take  out  the  big  mattress.  I  '11  fix  my- 
self up  on  the  other  in  my  old  soldier's  cloak.  Draw 
the  curtain,  and  there  's  your  spare  room.  Mind 
your  head,  please,  against  the  library  shelves,  and 
don't  go  into  the  crockery  when  you  're  taking  off 
your  coat." 

' '  The  cloak  for  me, ' '  said  Mr.  Gooding.  ' '  I  must 
turn  out  early  to  make  it  up  with  the  machine." 

"Well,  every  man  to  his  taste.  Good  night,  and 
pleasant  dreams ' ' ;  and  almost  as  the  words  left  his 
lips  he  was  fast  asleep. 

Next  morning  a  kindly  hand  on  his  shoulder 
roused  the  young  man  to  sunrise  and  all  the  glories 
of  Sherwood. 

247 


The  Yellow  Van 

His  toilet  was  deferred,  but  it  took  a  full  hour  to 
valet  the  car.  The  creature  was  sulky  at  first,  and 
seemed  to  have  developed  a  mechanical  spavin  with 
the  hard  work  of  the  day  before.  Fortunately,  there 
was  a  good  reserve  of  fuel. 

All  was  right  at  last,  and  then  Redmond,  giving 
his  guest  a  send-off  from  the  turf  with  his  shoulder, 
put  him  square  to  his  work  on  the  highroad. 

"Good-by;  good  luck." 

So  they  parted,  and  the  young  man  was  soon  bowl- 
ing along  toward  bath  and  breakfast,  in  the  forest 
hotel  which  he  had  missed  in  his  wanderings  the 
night  before.  A  telegram  awaited  him:  "Want 
you."  It  was  signed  "Augusta,"  and  of  course  it 
brought  his  wanderings  to  a  close. 


248 


XXVIII 


N  receipt  of  Augusta's  message 
Arthur  Gooding  made  straight  for 
Allonby.  A  certain  note  of  im- 
periousness  in  it  had  the  double 
charm  of  the  elder  sister  and  of 
the  woman.  Though  there  was  so 
little  difference  in  years  between  them,  it  carried  him 
back  to  the  time  where  hers  was  the  protecting  arm 
and  the  guiding  brain. 

He  found  her  troubled,  and  yet  with  a  certain 
radiancy  as  of  hope  and  certainty. 

"Arthur,  I  want  you  to  find  a  ring  in  the  Eed  Sea 
—two  rings." 

"One  chance  more  for  me." 
"You  Ve  heard  me  speak  of  the  Herions." 
"I  know  all  about  them." 
"Why,  you  never  saw  them  in  your  1—" 
"Never  saw  Alexander  the  Great,  if  it  comes  to 
that." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Arthur.  Well,  they  are  lost  in 
town,  and  I  want  them  Sack  at  Allonby— right 
here." 

"A  slumming  job." 

"Just  to  please  little-big  sister.  I  don't  think 
you  are  quite  so  attentive  as  ever." 

249 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Why?" 

"You  have  n't  started  yet." 

"I  ought  to  be.    You  are  quite  as  unreasonable." 

J'l  '11  get  Mary  to  ask  you." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Augusta.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  the  time  of  the  next  train?" 

It  was  a  large  order,  and  he  felt  as  much  as  the 
express  flew  townward  with  a  steady  recurrent  beat 
of  movement  that  made  him  feel  like  Sindbad  under 
the  roc's  wing.  How  shall  the  lost  be  found  in 
mighty  London,  the  home  of  the  vanishing-trick? 
He  steamed  into  the  great  station  as  the  local  trains 
were  steaming  out  with  their  freight  of  business  men 
homeward  bound.  The  city  fills  and  empties  every 
day,  from  its  suburbs  back  to  the  suburbs  again. 
The  return  is  a  rush  as  of  the  river  at  Dinan,  roar- 
ing home  in  flood  fast  enough  to  drown  the  urchins 
picking  the  pebbles  from  its  bed.  And  any  two  of 
these  obscure  wayfarers  might  be  Rose  and  George. 

Next  morning  it  was,  Where  to  begin  ?  All  he  had 
to  guide  him  was  the  returned  envelop  that  bore 
the  address  of  their  last-known  lodging,  with  its  in- 
dorsement of  "gone  away."  So  he  made  that  quar- 
ter his  starting-point.  It  was  a  strange  neighbor- 
hood, exquisitely  dismal  in  its  newer  parts,  as  ex- 
quisitely flavored  with  tender  and  fragrant  mem- 
ories in  its  many  remains  of  the  past.  Here  yet 
stands  the  church  that  marks,  though  in  a  modern 
casing,  the  site  of  Chaucer's  "Scole  of  Stratford  atte 
Bowe"— one  of  its  ancient  tombs  within  that  of  a 
child  who  owed  heaven  to  the  kindness  wherewith 

250 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Nature  his  nurse  gott  him  to  bed  betimes."  And 
hard  by,  a  Board  school,  naked  and  unashamed, 
stands  where  stood,  not  too  long  ago  for  some  of  us 
to  have  passed  our  childhood  there,  an  old  hunting- 
lodge  of  the  first  James,  majestic  in  its  gables  and  its 
paneled  glories,  its  finely  ceiled  state-rooms,  its  deep- 
bayed  hearths,  sacred  to  the  gods  of  the  fireside. 
Surely  a  pick  in  the  hands  of  a  vestryman  may  be 
the  deadliest  of  murderers'  tools. 

The  lodging  was  in  one  of  the  mean  streets  that 
have  usurped  the  site  of  the  old-time  garden.  The 
landlady,  a  Megaera  from  the  wash-tub,  received 
Mr.  Gooding's  inquiries  with  a  look  of  mingled  sus- 
picion, respect,  indifference,  all  in  one  glassy,  non- 
committal stare. 

"Herion,"  said  the  young  man,  repeating  his  first 
mention  of  the  name. 

"'Erring,  'Erring?"  she  mused. 

"Why,  certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"A  young  feller,  fine  figger  of  a  man,  like,  an' 
wife  to  match?  Sort  of  country  couple?" 

"That's  it." 

"Owe  me  thirteen  shillin's  rent." 

"I  '11  pay  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand  at  once,  and,  on  the  com- 
pletion of  the  transaction,  said  in  a  really  obliging 
manner:  "Well,  they  don't  live  here." 

"Ah,  don't  tell  me  too  much  at  once." 

"You  see,  they  went  on  all  right  till  he  lost  his 
job  at  the  docks ;  an '  then,  you  see,  they  fell  be  'ind- 
'and  with  their  rent.  An',  of  course,  I  could  n't—  " 

251 


The  Yellow  Van 

"You  're  a  pansy.    But  what  's  become  of  them?" 

"Couldn't  tell  yer,  guvnor." 

"Switch  me  on  to  somebody  that  can." 

"Well,  there  was  a  man  from  the  country  as  knew 
'em— porter  at  a  ware 'us  in  the  Borough— name  of 
Jubb." 

"The  warehouse  or  the  porter?" 

"I  couldn't  say." 

Jubb  was  found,  and  he  proved  to  be  the  owner 
of  the  shop.  And,  in  due  course,  his  porter  was  run 
to  earth  for  more  leisurely  examination  in  his  own 
home. 

The  porter  was  communicative,  but  hardly  help- 
ful. He  and  his  wife  were  two  grains  of  the  human 
rubbish  which  the  feudal  system  dumps  into  the 
towns.  By  good  hap  they  had  fallen  in  a  cranny 
of  the  stony  places  where,  after  a  fashion,  they  might 
take  root.  He  was  quiet  in  manner,  as  one  awe- 
struck with  his  luck,  yet  perplexed  with  yearnings 
for  the  old  village  home.  The  inquirer  had  to  en- 
dure much  from  him  in  the  way  of  reminiscence,  in 
the  hope  of  getting  the  one  thing  needful  at  last. 

"Fust  I  see  o'  London  in  all  my  life  I  come  up 
for  a  'oliday.  Frightened  of  it  like  when  I  got  there, 
an'  trots  into  a  pub  to  ask  my  way.  Stops  in  the 
pub  all  day,  an'  goes  back  at  night,  same  way  's  I 
come.  I  'ad  n't  seen  much,  but,  mind  yer,  I  got 
'ome  to  time." 

It  was  his  first  experience  in  dissipation,  but  it 
sufficed. 

252 


The  Yellow  Van 

"I  ain't  seen  much  more  of  it  now,  master, 
though  I  've  been  up  this  five  year.  But  I  've  got 
a  place,  an'  that  '11  do  for  me.  I  loads  an'  un- 
loads my  'taters  all  day  long,  an'  then,  when  I  Ve 
swep'  out  the  ware 'us,  I  comes  'ome  and  'as  my 
tea." 

He  expected  no  more.  His  life  in  the  village  had 
been  one  long  apprenticeship  to  the  living  death. 
Full  many  a  winter's  night  had  he  tramped  home  in 
the  darkness  through  miry  ways  to  a  mildewed  cot- 
tage lighted  by  a  farthing  dip,  and  to  a  supper  of 
bread-crusts  soaked  in  liquid  grease,  offered  and 
eaten  in  the  silence  of  a  life  without  events.  What 
was  there  to  talk  about?  Nothing  had  happened, 
nothing  was  going  to  happen.  The  muteness  of  his 
mate  betokened  no  ill  feeling,  but  only  stagnation 
of  the  mind.  And  sometimes,  to  break  the  silence, 
there  was  the  half-delirious  wail  of  a  child  down  with 
one  of  the  diseases  of  its  age.  To-day  was  as  yester- 
day; to-morrow  would  be  as  to-day.  The  sweet 
privacies  of  dawn  to  the  early  riser,  so  restful  to  the 
tormented  spirit,  were  but  aggravations  of  the 
melancholy  of  his  lot.  It  was  not  sorrow,  but  the 
far  worse  thing — absence  of  joy:  a  life  wherein 
nothing  came  to  pass  but  a  rank  pipe.  This  it  is,  the 
sense  of  the  vacuity  of  being,  that  empties  the  cot- 
tage into  the  slum.  The  gin-palace  is  at  least  a  pres- 
ent discount  of  the  promises;  and  the  clodhopper 
has  almost  ceased  to  believe  in  the  brightness  of  #  life 
to  come,  for  want  of  a  sign. 

253 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  had  resisted  that  consolation,  for  he  had  not 
enough  temperament  for  vice.  Town  was  as  dull  as 
country  for  him.  Yet  he  lived  by  a  doctrine,  as  all 
must,  though  they  may  not  be  able  to  give  it  a  name. 
It  was  the  doctrine  of  the  futility  of  resistance  to 
the  hurtful  forces  of  the  world. 

"We  keeps  ourselves  to  ourselves,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Gooding,  by  way  of  apology  for  his  ignorance  of  the 
further  movements  of  the  Herions.  "We  don't  say 
nothin'  to  nobody :  you  gets  on  best  that  way.  I  never 
see  any  one  come  to  much  good  as  did.  The  gentry 
doan'  like  it.  All  the  noise  they  want  they  can  make 
for  theirselves.  Keep  quiet— eh,  master?— an'  then 
you  won't  find  the  churchyard  so  much  of  a  change. 
It  's  the  lively  ones  that  finds  dying  such  a  worry. 
I  fancy  that  was  young  Herion's  complaint,  from 
all  I  've  heared." 

"I  dare  say;  but  how  are  we  going  to  cure  Him, 
if  you  can't  put  me  on  his  track?" 

The  wife  wrinkled  her  brow  in  thought.  "There 
was  a  woman— a  sort  of  a  woman— as  'elped  her  at 
the  birth  of  her  baby.  So  I  was  told.  It  came  on 
sudden-like,  soon  after  they  went  away." 

"Don't  you  fancy  I  'm  in  a  hurry,"  said  Arthur, 
settling  himself.  "If  it  comes  to  a  pinch,  I  Ve  got 
all  night  long." 

"Mrs.  Patch  was  her  name— if  she  was  a  Mrs." 

' '  Hurry  up  a  bit,  just  for  fun, ' '  said  the  youth. 

"She  lived  at  a  place  called  Batley's  Rents  in 
Limehouse.  So  I  was  told." 

"Thank  you.     I  'm  sure  you  're  always  among 

254 


The  Yellow  Van 

those  present,"  he  said,  pressing  half  a  crown  into 
her  hand. 

"GONE  'opping,"  was  the  report  in  the  Rents;  but 
the  scent  was  now  so  hot  that  Batley's,  with  scarcely 
an  effort,  was  enabled  to  name  the  village  in  Kent 
where  Mrs.  Patch  might  not  inconceivably  be  found. 


255 


XXIX 

HAT  same  night,  such  is  the  per- 
fection of  the  railway  system  and 
such  are  the  vicissitudes  of  a  quest, 
Mr.  Gooding  was  sitting  by  a 
camp-fire  in  Kent.  His  com- 
panions were  a  gang  of  hop- 
pickers  who  had  finished  their  day's  work  and  were 
prolonging  their  evening  revel  into  the  small  hours. 
It  was  a  motley  throng— outcasts  of  town  and 
country,  and  a  few  quite  decent  folk  who  took  their 
hopping  as  a  recreation  and  killed  the  two  birds  of 
work  and  the  summer  holiday  with  one  stone. 

The  "sort  of  a  woman"  he  had  come  in  quest  of 
was  among  them.  She  sat  a  little  apart  from  the 
rest,  pulling  at  a  pipe  with  tranquil  energy,  and 
gazing  into  vacancy.  The  glow  of  the  fire  lighted 
up  her  dismal,  tormented  face  of  early  middle  age, 
seamed  with  the  coarser  cares.  She  was  a  drab,  even 
in  the  punning  sense  of  the  word,  being  of  a  dry- 
mud  color  in  her  very  clothing,  as  though  she  had 
quite  immediately  sprung  from  the  soil,  and  might 
dissolve  back  into  it  at  any  moment  by  the  accident 
of  a  shower.  She  was  shod  only  less  solidly  than 
a  horse,  and  mainly  with  metal,  too,  which  glittered 
bright  in  nail  and  clamp  from  the  surface  of  her  up- 

256 


The  Yellow  Van 

turned  soles.  She  seemed  as  densely  unideaed  as  a 
frog  at  rest— a  peasant  woman  of  the  lowest  order, 
who  had  received  her  final  touch  of  brutishness  in 
town.  The  gang  girls  of  the  fen  country  look  so 
when  their  womanhood  has  flowered  in  the  squalor 
of  a  provincial  center.  In  such  the  earth  seems  hun- 
gry to  claim  its  own  before  the  time.  A  too  ex- 
clusive commerce  with  it  has  degraded  them  to  the 
lowest  level.  They  seem  to  gape  wonder  at  every- 
thing in  the  cosmic  scheme  that  is  not  a  clod.  Arthur 
thought  of  his  sister,  and  wondered  whether  the 
evolutionary  system  might  not  possibly  be  brought 
under  new  management  for  the  speedier  elevation 
of  the  race.  It  might  otherwise  take  thousands  of 
years  to  give  Mrs.  Patch  a  lift  toward  the  skies. 

She  grunted  forth  her  answers  in  one  syllable  till 
Mr.  Gooding  mollified  her  with  a  tip.  Then  she  went 
into  two,  though  but  a  little  way.  ' '  Yes ;  I  knowed 
'er,  fast  enough."  The  neatness  of  her  questioner's 
attire  seemed  to  have  some  effect  upon  her,  as  upon 
all  of  them.  They  settled  down  to  make  the  most 
of  the  unwonted  visit  of  a  ' '  gentleman, ' '  eyeing  him 
the  while  with  contemptuous  wonder,  as  Hotspur 
might  have  eyed  his  fop. 

The  arrival  of  Mrs.  Patch's  "man"  with  a  can 
of  beer  was  a  welcome  diversion.  He  was  an  abso- 
lute contrast  to  her— small,  foxy,  nimble,  voluble, 
but  still  chary  of  speech  at  first,  as  though  to  make 
the  most  of  his  information.  For  her  his  coming  was 
evidently  a  relief  to  the  tedium  of  talk,  and  she  re- 
sumed her  silence  and  her  pipe. 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Yes;  we  knowed  'em,  fast  enough,"  he  repeated. 
"You  're  at  the  right  shop  here,  guvnor." 

' '  Where  are  they  now  ? ' ' 

""Well,  we  '11  come  to  that  by  an'  by.  I  was  in 
the  same  gang  with  'im,  this  'ere  friend  o'  yours,  at 
Lime 'us  Dock.  Garge,  we  used  to  call  'im.  I  can 
see  'im  as  well  as  I  see  you— a  reg'lar  glutton  for 
work. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Then  we  both  got  the  sack,— the  work  comes  an' 
goes,  guvnor,— an'  I  loses  sight  on  'im  for  a  time. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  they  was  both  rather  a  cut 
above  me  an'  my  missus.  But  you  know  how  it  is — 
hard  up,  an'  the  kid  comin'.  People  can't  afford 
to  be  partic'lar  when  they  're  like  that.  Can  they, 
now?" 

"You  're  giving  us  rather  too  much  hot  air,"  said 
Mr.  Gooding. 

"Then  I  struck  'im  again,  guvnor.  An'  where 
d'  ye  think  it  was  ?  But  there— you  'd  never  guess. " 

"Then  I  won't  try." 

"Well,  he  was  jest  mad  for  a  job\  An'  what— do 
— you — think  he  was  doin',  sir?  Gospel  truth!" 

"Governor  of  the  Bank  of  England?" 

"No,  sir;  but  jest  outside  it,  peddlin'  knickknacks 
on  the  curb— studs,  pocket-combs,  toothpicks,  'all  this 
lot  a  penny.'  Seem  he  'd  once  been  in  that  line. 
That  's  the  way  English-born  men  has  to  live  now- 
adays, guvnor,  if  they  're  not  foreigners.  An'  even 
that  lot  is  cuttin'  into  the  street  trade." 

"Sorry,  but—"    It  was  maddening. 

258 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Things  '11  never  be  right,"  piped  another  of  the 
group,  "till  them  sort  is  kep'  out  of  this  country. 
I  'm  a  snip,  an'  I  know  what  they  are  in  my  trade. 
Talk  about  religion ! ' ' 

"I  'm  not  talking  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Gooding. 

"Well,  if  you  was,  you  'd  see  as  God  A 'mighty 
seems  to  think  more  o'  the  Jarmans  than  he  does  of 
his  own  countrymen." 

"An'  dynamite  on  your  door-step  as  soon  as  look 
at  ye,  if  you  put  'em  out!"  said  a  decent-looking 
woman,  comfortably  shawled. 

' '  Ever  'ad  any  on  yours,  missus  ? ' '  some  one  asked. 

It  turned  the  laugh  against  her,  and  spoiled  her 
effect.  There  was  evidently  a  sneaking  kindness  for 
this  agency  with  most  of  them.  Nobody  approved, 
but  nobody  blamed.  It  was  left  a  moot  point. 

"As  to  that,"  returned  the  tailor,  "there  's  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides.  Dynamiters  ain  't 
all  bad.  They  mean  well,  some  of  'em.  It  's  the 
swells  they  're  after  most  o'  the  time;  it  ain't  us 
lot." 

A  chill  fell  on  the  group.  The  woman  in  the  shawl 
had  a  repentant  air. 

"You  see,  Englishmen  likes  to  enjoy  theirselves, " 
said  the  foxy  little  man,  by  way  of  diversion. 
' '  That  's  their  natur '.  '  Jolly  Englishmen !  '—you  've 
beared  the  sayin'.  This  foreign  scum  they  don't 
want  no  enjoyment.  Live  on  pickles,— seen  it  with 
my  own  eyes, — an'  sleep  on  the  same  shelf  as  they 
keep  the  jar.  That  's  their  touch.  They  don't  want 
no  music- 'alls  in  the  evenin',  an'  no  social  glass— 

259 


The  Yellow  Van 

jest  as  we  might  be  'avin'  now.  That  's  what  fust 
brought  me  up  to  town— the  lights  in  the  street." 

"It  ain't  the  foreigners,"  said  the  tailor;  "it  's 
the  rich  people,  no  matter  where  they  come  from. 
All  the  coin  o'  the  world  drains  into  their  pockets. 
If  you  want  sights,  go  round  the  West  End.  That  's 
the  way  the  money  goes.  Ever  done  Bond  street, 
mate,  on  a  fine  evenin'?" 

"No;  not  my  touch." 

"The  pantymines  ain't  in  it  for  glory.  Every 
winder  ablaze;  the  very  coffee-shops  like  Aladdin's 
palace,  an'  gals  in  long  trains  to  wait.  When  I  got 
nothin'  else  to  do,  I  watch  it  from  outside.  An'  the 
jewel-shops,  with  the  glare  of  it  beatin'  down  on  the 
goods  till  it  stings  'em  into  burnin'  life— throb, 
throb,  throb!  An'  the  blasted  knickknacks!  None 
o'  your  'this  lot  a  penny'  there.  Cases  in  solid  gold 
to  hold  a  ha'p'orth  o'  lead-pencil;  penholders  like- 
wise ;  even  the  very  pens.  My  Gawd,  it  's  cruel ! 
They  dunno  what  to  do  with  the  coin.  They  say  the 
Jarmans  is  comin'  over  'ere  to  give  us  a  good  'idin' 
one  o'  these  days.  It  '11  serve  us  damned  well  right." 

Arthur  was  sick  at  heart.  He  was  baffled  in  his 
quest.  Either  they  knew  nothing  or  they  would 
not  tell.  And  the  misery  chilled  him.  He  had  such 
a  sense  of  opportunity  in  life— opportunity  for  all; 
and  the  instinctive  pessimism  of  these  wretches 
seemed  to  give  it  the  lie.  He  had  dreams  of  being 
a  great  financier,  of  world-girdling  combinations  in 
which  his  own  aggrandizement  would  be  that  of  the 
race.  Yet  these  people  were  some  of  the  items  of 

260 


The  Yellow  Van 

his  reckoning.  What,  after  all,  could  he,  or  his 
tribe,  do  for  any  but  themselves?  Was  this  the 
result  of  ages  of  profit-hunting,  on  the  principle 
that  the  good  of  one  was  the  good  of  all?  He  had 
crossed  the  Atlantic  with  hopes  of  a  venture  which 
was  to  determine  his  choice  of  a  career.  Men  of 
wealth  and  standing  in  his  own  country,  who  had 
faith  in  him,  were  ready  for  a  new  invasion  of  Eng- 
land, of  Europe,  if  he,  or  others  like  him,  could  show 
the  way.  It  could  have  no  attraction  for  him  if  it 
were  not  beneficent.  He  was  going  to  make  himself 
a  rich  man  to  the  end  of  making  himself  a  useful 
one.  Yet  where  could  be  the  certainty  of  that,  after 
what  he  had  seen  in  this  direful  object-lesson?  JLt 
began  to  look  as  though  all  corporate  life  were  but 
one  eternal  mode  of  slave-labor,  the  forms  varying, 
but  the  mass  ever  in  the  position  of  the  under  dog. 
What  had  he  seen  as  a  mere  tourist  with  his  eyes 
open?  A  land  that  could  not  even  feed  its  own 
people ;  a  competitive  system  that  had  nothing  nobler 
than  sheer  hunger  and  destitution  for  its  starting- 
point;  a  most  appalling  poverty,  a  still  more  ap- 
palling wealth.  Hundreds  of  thousands  without  so 
much  as  the  assurance  of  the  elementals  of  bed, 
clothing,  and  a  crust,  things  without  which  no  saint 
could  take  up  his  sainthood,  no  sage  his  parable,  no 
workman  his  hammer,  no  writer  his  pen.  It  was 
sickening  to  feel  that,  after  ages  of  stable  and  con- 
tinuous civilization,  no  one  had  found  out  how  to 
give  everybody  three  meals  a  day  and  a  clean  shirt. 
And  all  the  sages  supposed  to  be  at  work  on  it  stead- 

261 


The  Yellow  Van 

ily,  and  all  the  statesmen,  and  all  the  churches? 
There  must  have  been  slackness  somewhere.  And 
still  worse  was  it  to  know  the  gnawing  doubt  that  he 
and  all  his  precious  labors  as  a  coming  captain  of 
industry  might  only  make  things  worse.  He  de- 
tested Socialism,  and  well-nigh  all  else  ending  with 
the  same  syllable.  He  was  so  sure  that  "these 
States"  had  found  the  secret  in  limitless  freedom 
and  limitless  struggle,  with  wealth  for  the  prize. 
Yet  see  what  hideous  results  of  these  were  before 
him  in  the  old  land! 

He  rose  to  leave,  and  to  stamp  off  the  chill  of  the 
night  air.  The  foxy  man,  watchful  through  the  slits 
of  his  eyes,  seemed  to  feel  that  if  his  "missus"  was 
to  earn  the  guerdon  already  paid,  she  had  better 
make  haste. 

"There  was  one  o'  that  missionary  lot  as  took  up 
with  'em,  so  I  've  heared  say.  They  ain't  no  class 
for  me."  He  nodded  at  the  woman,  as  though 
urging  her  to  speak.  ' '  She  knows. ' ' 

She  went  on  smoking. 

Then  he  swore  at  her.  "Can't  yer  open  yer 
mouth  an '  tell  the  gentleman  ?  Yer  've  got  'is  money 
in  yer  pocket. ' ' 

Arthur  looked  at  her.  It  was  the  sex,  after  all, 
even  in  this  ghastly  image. 

"Don't  talk  to  her  like  that." 

She  eyed  him  as  though  he  were  some  wandering 
child  of  the  sun,  out  of  his  sphere,  and  muttered: 
"Place  over  a  fried-fish  shop  off  Poplar  Road. 

262 


The  Yellow  Van 

Pawnshop  at  the  corner.    '  Christ!  'n  'Ope  Sersiety.' 
They  might  know." 

The  mission  woman,  seen  next  day,  could  only 
shake  her  head.    "I  'm  afraid  the  Herions  have  sunk 
out  of  our  reach.    There  's  a  point  where  these  people 
touch  the  lower  levels  of  misery  and  are  quite  lost. 
All  of  us  are  useless  in  that  slough,  though  some 
don 't  like  to  confess  it.    The  Salvation  Army,  which 
is  the  charwoman  of  the  Church,  fails  there.    I  knew 
Mrs.  Herion  very  well :  a  quiet,  hard-working  woman 
—pretty,  too ;  proud  as  a  duchess  in  her  humble  way. 
There  isn't  enough  work  to  go  round  for  such  as 
they.    If  the  wages  rise  a  bit,  up  goes  the  rent  along 
with  it.     There  's  always  somebody,  a  landlord  or 
a  sweater,  to  graft  every  penny  of  the  increase.  .If 
you  housed  them  for  nothing,  down  would  go  the 
earnings  to  the  point  at  which  the  poor  things  could 
just  manage  to  eat  and  drink.     The  Herions  had 
saved  a  little  while  his  work  lasted,  but  her  confine- 
ment and  the  loss  of  work  together  pulled  them 
down.    And  they  went  from  bad  to  worse  when  they 
came  this  way.     The  rent  was  crushing.     It  keeps 
pace  with  the  very  need  of  shelter.    The  greater  the 
crowd,  the  dearer  the  homes.    In  this  quarter  they 
are  asking  '  key  money '  now,  a  premium  on  the  right 
of  a  mere  first  chance  in  the  scramble  for  a  lodging. 
What  is  London  to  do  with  all  these  human  misfits? 
Why  don't  we  find  out  how  to  keep  them  in  their 
villages?      How    can    they    strike    out    with    their 
wretched  education,  suited  to  their  'state  in  life'? 

263 


The  Yellow  Van 

You  may  walk  round  with  me,  if  you  like,  to  see  our 
poor— very  decent,  all  of  them.  Some  of  them  might 
be  able  to  tell  you  more  than  I  can.  Kose  always 
tried  to  keep  the  best  company  among  them." 

He  went  with  her  as  a  forlorn  hope.  The  utter 
inadequacy  of  the  remedy  to  the  disease  was  dis- 
heartening. The  missioners  had  evidently  no  grip 
on  it.  The  soft  deans  by  whom  they  were  more  re- 
motely inspired  rarely  mentioned  the  religion  of 
economic  relations,  the  root  of  the  matter,  to  ears 
polite.  Their  silence  was  not  time-serving,  but  con- 
viction. It  was  policy,  too.  If  they  rashly  tampered 
with  the  doctrine  that  everybody  should  grow  as  rich 
as  he  could,  where  would  charity  get  its  ten-pound 
note? 

A  few  old  people  eked  out  a  scanty  subsistence 
under  her  care.  It  was  better  than  nothing,  perhaps, 
but— all  around!  One,  a  sort  of  specimen  number, 
asked  Mr.  Gooding  if  he  happened  to  know  the 
shortest  verse  in  the  Bible.  As  it  did  happen,  he 
was  able  to  tell  her.  Then  came  a  poser :  What  was 
the  word  that  stood  in  the  very  middle  of  the  sacred 
book?  He  gave  it  up.  She  named  it  with  triumph 
as  the  result  of  efforts  that  had  cost  her  six  months' 
application  to  the  dreary  business  of  the  count. 

He  turned  away  with  his  rather  shamefaced  guide. 

"When  did  you  last  see  the  Herions?"  he  asked. 

"George  had  gone  out  again  to  look  for  work. 

Hose  was  lying  ill  on  the  bed  in  a  dismal  room,  still 

and  quiet,  with  a  baby  opening  its  eyes,  for  the  first 

time,  on  a  vista  of  East  End  back  yards.    A  mouse, 

264 


The  Yellow  Van 

trustful  in  the  stagnant  peace,  foraged  for  its  break- 
fast, and  hardly  stirred  when  I  came  in." 

"Who  sublets  such  holes?" 

"  'Speculators.'  " 

"Who  owned  that  one?" 

"The  Duke  of  Allonby,  I  believe." 

Arthur  left  town  that  night  to  report. 


265 


XXX 

HREE  months  of  the  country  sea- 
son have  passed,  with  their  round 
of  sport  and  play  according  to  the 
rubric,  and  we  are  now  at  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  year.  Allonby,  by 
general  consent,  has  never  seen  the 
like  of  it.  There  has  been  one  steady  whirl  of  or- 
dered movement,  as  brisk  in  its  way  as  the  rotation 
of  the  earth.  The  only  thing  that  saves  us  in  the 
general  arrangement  is  that  the  planet  is  forever  on 
the  go.  If  once  it  paused  to  take  stock  of  itself,  we 
might  all  be  shivered  into  fragments.  Having  no 
time  for  reflection,  Augusta  has  been  able  to  take  the 
congratulations  of  her  friends  in  good  part,  and  to 
admit  that  her  success  has  been  almost  without  a 
flaw. 

Yet,  in  the  very  moment  of  supreme  satisfaction, 
there  came  a  doubt.  In  one  thing  she  had  to  own 
failure.  The  Herions  were  still  waiting  for  ducal 
justice,  still  undiscovered— of  late,  even,  still  un- 
sought. The  sense  of  right  was  still  strong  with 
her.  The  sense  of  the  smart  of  failure  was  just 
as  strong,  for  she  was  as  inconsistent  in  her  virtues 
as  the  rest  of  us. 

The  truth  is,  she  had  won  over  the  duke  alone, 

266 


The  Yellow  Van 

and  the  system  was  still  against  her.  He  had  con- 
sented to  the  reinstalment  of  the  Herions,  but  the 
agent,  the  family  solicitors,  in  fact  the  whole  per- 
manent staff  of  management,  had  resolved  that  his 
order  should  never  be  carried  out.  He  had  told  them 
to  advertise.  They  advertised  in  the  leading  jour- 
nal! A  dock-laborer  seeking  himself  in  an  agony 
column  at  threepence  a  peep  was  a  grotesque  con- 
ception, but  he  could  not  realize  that.  He  suggested 
private  detectives.  The  private  detectives  took  their 
cue  from  those  who  instructed  them,  the  more  so 
as  they  naturally  languished  without  the  stimulus 
of  a  scandal  or  a  crime.  Augusta  was  puzzled  at 
first,  until  George  Herion  's  mother  gave  her  the  clue. 
"They  not  goin'  to  'ave  'em  back,  your  Grace,  till 
they  come  in  their  coffins— mark  that!"  Then  it  all 
flashed  on  Augusta  in  an  instant:  "they"  meant  the 
counterplot.  She  colored  with  resentment  and  in- 
dignation, and  determined  to  find  her  birds  for  her- 
self. 

Yet  Allonby  still  claimed  her  for  the  moment,  and 
in  the  most  imperative  way.  Its  brilliant  season 
was  to  have  an  ending  of  supreme  splendor  in  the 
visit  of  a  royal  pair.  Invitations  were  out  for  a 
great  party  to  meet  the  duke  and  duchess  whose 
place  was  on  the  steps  of  the  throne. 

It  was  the  day  of  their  arrival.  The  castle  looked 
watchfulness  and  expectation  from  every  port-hole. 
All  were  at  their  posts,  from  the  steward  to  the  scul- 
lions. It  was  the  first  visit  of  an  heir  in  the  direct 
line  of  succession  for  over  a  century,  and  this  one 

267 


The  Yellow  Van 

had  still  some  of  the  interest  of  mystery.  He  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  close  companionship  of  the 
best  of  mothers,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
most  devout  women  of  her  time,  and  still  as  youth- 
ful to  look  at  as  her  own  children. 

The  struggle  for  invitations  to  the  house-party 
had  been  unusually  keen.  The  party  was  limited  to 
thirty;  and,  according  to  custom,  every  name  had 
been  submitted  in  the  highest  quarter.  The  host  and 
hostess  had  drawn  up  their  lists.  The  royal  duke 
and  duchess  had  used  the  blue  pencil  freely,  to  strike 
in  or  to  strike  out.  There  could  not  have  been  more 
orderly  fuss  about  it  if  the  choice  of  so  many  am- 
bassadors had  been  the  matter  in  hand. 

For,  the  truth  is,  these  august  persons  had  the 
reputation  of  social  austerity  in  the  court  circle. 
The  prince  had  his  mother's  horror  of  the  smart  set, 
and  his  wife  was  known  to  share  his  sentiments  to 
the  full.  The  set  would  cheerfully  have  left  both 
alone  in  their  glory,  but  it  had  to  reckon  with  them 
in  spite  of  itself.  To  be  at  Allonby  on  such  an  oc- 
casion was,  no  doubt,  to  endure  intolerable  boredom ; 
yet  not  to  be  there  was,  in  some  measure,  to  be 
classed.  The  prince  was  eminently  "serious";  and 
it  was  well  understood  that  when  his  day  came  so- 
ciety would  have  to  toe  the  line. 

The  figurative  expression  bore  a  literal  reference. 
It  was  really  a  question  of  the  right  sort  of  toe  for 
the  purpose.  The  illustrious  person  was  familiarly 
known  to  the  set  as  "Young  Square  Toes."  This 
meant  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of  his  bootmaker, 

268 


The  Yellow  Van 

but  only  that  the  customer,  in  spite  of  a  limited 
count  of  years,  was  smitten  with  incurable  age  of 
mind.  Some  of  those  who  called  him  Square  Toes 
were  hoary  with  eld ;  but  that  did  not  matter.  Their 
"footwear"  was  their  accepted  symbol  of  eternal 
youth.  One  symbol  will  serve  as  well  as  another  to 
signify  the  most  profound  difference  in  the  view  of 
life.  At  one  time,  as  we  know,  it  was  the  cut  in  love- 
locks; to-day  it  is  the  cut  in  shoe-leather:  yet  Cav- 
alier and  Roundhead  maintain  their  everlasting  con- 
flict amid  the  changes  of  form.  And,  after  all,  the 
more  joyous  party  may  easily  be  commended  to  our 
sense  of  dignity  by  regarding  them  as  a  sort  of 
Pointed  Order  of  the  fabric  of  state. 

The  Square  Toes,  by  common  consent  of  the  others, 
stood  for  the  dullness  of  respectability  and  the  gloom 
of  the  moral  law — in  fact,  for  the  reaction  toward 
puritanism  in  a  court  that  had  long  been  going  it  too 
fast.  The  Points,  as  they  were  familiarly  called, 
were  for  the  joie  de  vivre,  and  for  every  other  felici- 
tous phrase  that  signified  the  yearning  for  a  good 
time.  They  were  for  taking  this  life  in  a  galliard 
and  in  a  coranto,  whatever  might  be  the  fortunes  of 
the  next. 

It  was  war  to  the  knife  between  them,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  though  their  animosity  was  naturally 
tempered  in  expression  by  their  good  breeding.  The 
Squares  detested  the  Points  as  threatening  ruin  to 
the  nation  and  discredit  to  the  throne.  The  Points 
despised  and  ridiculed  the  Squares  as  killjoys  whose 
coming  supremacy  meant  sackcloth  for  court-dress. 

269 


The  Yellow  Van 

Many  a  Point  disappeared  beneath  the  blue  pencil 
in  the  course  of  revision.  Some  got  through  by  a 
timely  fit  of  mealy-mouthedness,  or  by  good  judg- 
ment in  lying  low.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
to  sacrifice  all  of  them.  If  the  proscription  had  been 
too  rigorous,  there  might  have  been  no  house-party. 

When  all  was  done,  the  factions  were  exceedingly 
well  defined.  The  Squares  included  that  unblem- 
ished nobleman  Lord  Ogreby,  whose  acquaintance 
Augusta  had  made  soon  after  her  arrival,  with  sev- 
eral members  of  his  family.  The  earl  was  known 
for  the  rigor  of  his  evangelical  principles  and  for 
the  studied  simplicity  of  his  life.  Whatever  else  was 
served  at  his  board,  boiled  mutton  always  had  a 
place  there;  and,  by  friendly  consultation  with  his 
tailor,  he  had  contrived  to  introduce  homespun  into 
the  composition  of  his  dress-suit.  His  hose,  for  all 
occasions,  were  of  hodden-gray.  You  might  have 
ruled  a  ledger  with  the  ends  of  his  shoes.  These 
circumstances,  however,  are  of  minor  importance, 
for  of  course  the  actual  costume  of  the  sections  was 
only  in  accidental  conformity  with  their  symbolic 
name.  The  earl  was  accompanied  by  his  son  and 
heir,  Lord  Beglerbeg,  who  stood  high  in  Christian 
Science,  and  by  a  daughter,  Lady  Francesca  Darton, 
who  held  a  humble  rank  in  the  Salvation  Army,  and 
wore  its  serge,  its  bonnet,  and  its  badge  in  the  most 
glittering  throngs.  This  was  the  best  the  neighbor- 
hood could  afford  in  the  ultra-respectability  of  de- 
votion. But  that  qualification  was  not  exacted  by 
the  illustrious  visitors,  who  asked  only  for  decency. 

270 


The  Yellow  Van 

Two  or  three  ministers  and  as  many  of  the  highest 
judges  supplied  gravity  without  any  admixture  of 
the  ridiculous.  With  these  were  a  few  who  looked 
in  vain  for  an  opening  in  great  affairs,  and  who 
were  part  of  that  strength  of  England  which  is  run- 
ning to  waste  for  want  of  organization.  Mr.  Bas- 
comti,  the  High-church  dignitary  of  Slocum  Magna, 
was  almost  of  the  party,  though  he  was  not  in  social 
residence.  But  he  came  and  went  by  special  desire 
of  Mr.  Gooding,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  him, 
and  by  pressing  invitation  of  Augusta.  Another 
contingent,  quite  after  the  prince's  own  heart,  was 
that  of  the  sportsmen,  who,  for  the  most  part,  were 
saved  from  frivolity  by  the  manliness  of  their  tastes. 
The  Points  were  variously  composed.  There  was 
Mr.  Kenneth  McAlister  Bruce,  a  magnate  of  modern 
finance  who  had  nothing  of  the  Scotsman  but  the 
astuteness  and  the  name.  It  was  enough,  especially 
the  first.  He  had  shootings  in  the  Highlands,  a 
house  in  Park  Lane,  a  hand  in  well-nigh  every  en- 
terprise of  moment  in  the  country,  though  ostensibly 
his  transactions  were  confined  to  the  China  trade. 
You  found  him  everywhere.  You  burrowed  into  un- 
derground tubes :  there  he  was.  You  coquetted  with 
new  and  far-reaching  patents:  he  was  there,  too. 
He  financed— there  it  is,  in  a  word.  He  was  ready 
with  the  requisite  subvention  for  every  good  thing 
going.  Had  he  been  present  at  the  rise  of  Moham- 
medanism, he  would  have  found  the  money  for  the 
advance  on  Mecca,  and  secured  exclusive  banking 
privileges  with  the  new  faith.  He  bore  arms— on  his 

271 


The  Yellow  Van 

note-paper;  he  spoke  English  with  the  accent  of 
Frankfort ;  he  was  bold  and  resolute,  and  in  the  fur- 
ther reaches  of  his  operations  he  was,  no  doubt,  a 
man  of  blood  at  need.  But  with  his  command  of  the 
best  legal  advice  he  could  take  a  pound  of  flesh  with- 
out any  fear  of  the  law.  Neither  his  feet  nor  his 
manners  were  made  for  the  Pointed  style,  and  he 
walked  Turkish  carpets  as  uneasily  as  the  ancient 
chief  of  his  order  walked  the  burning  marl.  He  had 
the  bluffness  of  his  tremendous  consciousness  of 
strength,  and,  in  all  his  transactions  with  his  fellow- 
men,  a  sort  of  terrifying  air  of  throwing  off  the  mask. 
He  was  rude  to  them.  They  knew  it,  and  knew  that 
he  knew  it,  too.  Therein  was  one  of  the  secrets  of 
his  power.  He  had  obliged  the  royal  house;  and 
while,  with  them,  he  paid  due  regard  to  the  forms, 
he  made  no  difficulty  of  alluding  to  the  duke's  chief 
guest  as  "the  youngster,"  over  his  cigar.  Women 
of  the  highest  rank  he  snubbed  to  their  faces  in  re- 
turn for  his  encouragement  of  their  futile  hopes  for 
information  as  to  the  way  to  get  rich. 

In  his  division,  and,  to  some  extent,  in  his  train, 
was  a  courtly  set  of  young  men  from  Oxford,  all  of 
good  birth,  and  with  nothing  but  good  breeding  for 
their  share  of  its  supposed  heritage  of  the  humani- 
ties. They  were  young  men  who  believed  in  making 
great  strokes  on  the  stock  exchange  and  enjoying 
life— not  coarsely,  indeed,  for  they  knew  the  value 
of  refinement  in  pleasure  as  an  element  of  staying 
power.  They  had  found  what  they  conceived  was 
a  short  cut  to  that  Epicurean  goal  for  which  men 

272 


The  Yellow  Van 

have  so  long  striven— a  state  in  which  we  may  neither 
suffer  nor  fear,  a  state  of  the  absence  of  pain  in  the 
body  and  of  trouble  in  the  mind.  In  this  respect 
they  were  the  very  latest  outcome  of  Oxford  culture, 
and  their  rise  had  providentially  synchronized  with 
the  world-embracing  bequest  of  Mr.  Rhodes. 

Another  social  interest  was  represented  by  the 
services,  and  by  the  army  in  particular.  These  per- 
sons, high  in  command,  knew  that  they  had  a  good 
thing  in  our  military  system,  and  meant  to  hold  it 
for  themselves  and  their  dependents,  at  least  quite 
as  firmly  as  they  could  have  held  a  beleaguered  fort. 
They  were  already  casting  far-seeing  glances  to  the 
future,  when  the  close  of  the  war  might  bring  home 
a  victorious  general  whose  soul  hungered  to  restore 
the  Roman  discipline  and  the  Roman  simplicity. 
They  had  no  ill  will  for  that  general,  but  they  wished 
to  put  him  in  his  place,  and  they  were  determined 
to  balk  his  berserker  rage  against  incompetence  by 
keeping  the  supreme  control  of  the  military  machine 
in  their  own  hands.  They  were  accordingly  prepar- 
ing for  his  promotion  to  a  post  of  great  dignity  be- 
yond the  seas  in  which  he  might  employ  his  ravening 
energies  with  profit  to  the  country,  without  disturb- 
ing the  even  tenor  of  their  own  way. 

At  the  head  of  a  section  more  immediately  de- 
voted to  the  arts  was  an  amiable  nobleman  who  en- 
joyed a  great  reputation  as  a  collector.  In  a  richly 
stocked  land  such  as  England,  the  gathering  of  pic- 
tures and  statuary  is  mainly  a  thing  of  the  past. 
The  old  country  has  all  it  wants  in  that  line,  and, 

273 


The  Yellow  Van 

besides,  America  has  grown  so  insistent.  But  the 
curious  has  taken  the  place  of  the  beautiful,  and  the 
culture  of  the  postage-stamp  shows  that  wealth  and 
research  need  never  be  without  an  object.  The  noble- 
man in  question  had  discovered  a  new  hobby.  Play- 
bills were  denied  him  by  mere  anticipation.  It  was 
the  same  with  china  and  the  various  forms  of  hard- 
ware. But  there  remained  one  line  of  virgin  enter- 
prise—omnibus and  tram-car  tickets.  He  had  begun 
to  collect  these  treasures  for  the  benefit  of  posterity 
too  late  in  their  history  to  give  him  the  command  of 
them  at  cost  price.  But  he  was  willing  to  pay  hand- 
somely for  his  neglect,  and  he  had  secured  with 
incredible  pains  the  first  issues  of  nearly  all  the 
southern  lines  of  the  metropolis,  and  well-nigh 
every  example  of  the  northern  section  dating  from 
the  period  of  the  assumption  of  control  by  the 
County  Council.  Of  one  or  two  of  these,  indeed, 
he  possessed  costly  proofs  before  letters— specimens 
without  the  stamp  of  their  date.  He  was  also  by  no 
means  ill  provided  with  foreign  examples,  and  he 
had  paid  particular  attention  to  the  transatlantic, 
in  the  modest  hope  of  contributing  his  quota  to  the 
promotion  of  the  American  alliance.  His  albums, 
adorned  with  a  book-plate  of  his  coronet  and  the 
well-known  motto,  " Punch,  boys,  punch;  punch 
with  care,"  boasted  a  first  Milwaukee,  and  an  early 
San  Francisco;  and  he  was  now  in  treaty  for  a 
primitive  Salt  Lake  City,  which  had  necessitated  ad- 
vances, not  altogether  agreeable  in  themselves,  to 
the  successors  of  the  Mormon  prophet. 

274 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  was  fortunate  in  finding  a  contingent  of 
Americans  at  Allonby  on  this  occasion  to  sympathize 
with  his  efforts,  if  not  to  aid  him  in  his  work.  One 
or  two  of  these  were  actually  English  by  adoption, 
and  even  by  the  change  of  nationality.  They  had 
all  the  peculiarities  of  local  accent,  and  the  tricks  of 
manner — at  times  in  the  proportions  of  caricature. 
They  were  even  prepared  to  suggest  a  belief  that  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  was  only  a  regrettable 
fit  of  temper,  and  that,  by  a  proper  exercise  of  for- 
bearance on  the  part  of  the  mother-country,  it  might 
yet  admit  of  modifications  importing  a  return  to 
more  filial  sentiments.  These  were  present,  not  by 
the  good  will  of  the  duchess,  tut  by  the  request  of 
the  royal  pair.  It  was  appropriate,  after  a  fashion, 
for  they  were  of  those  who  are  more  royalist  than  the 
king.  They  had  caught  everything  of  the  tone  of  a 
ruling  caste,  except,  perhaps,  the  necessary  reserves 
of  prudence.  Their  estates  on  English  soil  were 
managed  with  a  rigor  of  the  rights  of  possession 
which  gave  the  wandering  lover  of  the  beautiful  no 
share  in  their  glories  and  the  resident  poor  but  scant 
hopes  of  the  falling  crumb. 


275 


XXXI 

HE  arrival  was  in  semi-state.  The 
duke  awaited  the  royal  pair  at  the 
station  with  postilions  and  out- 
riders. The  Volunteers  performed 
the  services  for  which  Volunteers 
appear  to  exist  in  peaceful  climes. 
Augusta,  looking  her  loveliest,  was  at  her  threshold. 
To  a  nice  observer  her  smile  of  welcome  might  have 
seemed  to  lack  conviction.  Circumstances  had  some- 
what shaken  her  faith  in  the  institutions  of  which 
the  symbols  were  the  glittering  pageant,  the  bowing 
pair,  and  the  roaring  crowds.  Though  the  village 
made  as  much  noise  as  ever,  she  could  not  but  be 
aware  of  the  two  souls  that  had  dropped  out  of  its 
reckoning  since  she  herself  came  to  Allonby  with 
blare  of  trumpet  and  beat  of  drum.  The  Knuckle 
of  Veal,  however,  demonstrated  as  cheerily  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  Job  Gurt  toasted  the  royal 
family  in  the  parlor.  Mr.  Grimber  gave  them  per- 
sonal encouragement  with  heart,  or  at  any  rate  with 
hat  and  voice,  outside.  He  was  ably  seconded  by 
Mr.  Raif,  who  led  the  shouting  of  the  village  choir. 
Mary  and  her  father  were  among  the  first  to  be  pre- 
sented. Mr.  Kisbye  was  effectually  absent,  as  be- 
fore; yet,  for  all  that,  he  contrived  to  signalize  his 

276 


The  Yellow  Van 

existence  by  a  flaunting  banner  and  the  discharge 
of  an  impertinent  gun. 

A  glance  at  the  chief  guest  served  to  show  the 
extreme  injustice  of  party  nomenclature.  He  had 
been  seriously  maligned  by  his  nickname.  His 
toe-caps  would  have  gone  through  the  eye  of  a 
needle.  Nor  was  there  the  slightest  severity  in  his 
manner.  His  air  was  not  wanting  in  cordiality ;  and 
if  he  had  a  fault,  it  was  only  in  a  certain  excess  of 
correctness.  It  was  probably  but  an  effect  of  shy- 
ness: he  seemed  to  have  been  exceedingly  well 
brought  up. 

His  demeanor  toward  the  Points  left  little  to  be 
desired.  He  seemed  absolutely  unaware  of  their 
existence  as  a  faction,  and  he  received  their  homage 
as  though  rehearsing  for  his  future  part  of  the  father 
of  all  his  people.  His  consort  followed  his  lead. 
Their  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  attendance  bore  them- 
selves with  less  tact,  and  were  to  be  suspected  of  a 
sniff. 

There  was  barely  time  to  dress  for  the  great  din- 
ner which  was  the  chief  ceremonial  feature  cf  the 
day.  The  luggage  poured  in  from  the  distant  rail- 
way-station in  the  wake  of  the  visitors,  and  the 
village  kept  in  line  to  cheer  the  brakes  long  after  it 
had  caught  the  last  sight  of  the  carriages. 

It  was  understood  that,  for  all  the  three  days  of 
the  visit,  the  same  costume  would  not  b'e  worn  twice. 
The  maids  had  the  care-worn  look  of  trainers  en- 
gaged in  the  last  touches  on  racing  day.  They 
peeped  over  the  great  staircase  with  an  air  of  mingled 

277 


The  Yellow  Van 

triumph  and  solicitude  as  they  delivered  their 
starters  at  scratch  for  the  procession  from  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

If  the  banquet  was  at  first  depressing  in  its  sol- 
emnity, it  was  all  the  fault  of  the  Points.  They 
were  too  manifestly  on  their  good  behavior,  and 
their  enforced  homage  to  the  sense  of  propriety 
seemed  to  freeze  the  genial  current  of  their  souls. 
They  confined  themselves,  for  the  most  part,  to  the 
generalities  of  sport;  but  one  who  happened  to  be 
nearest  to  the  prince  branched  off  into  the  question 
of  Arctic  travel,  with  no  very  conspicuous  success. 
The  Squares  had  an  easier  part  to  play.  They  had 
only  to  eat  their  dinner  to  feel  perfectly  at  their 
ease.  Lord  Ogreby,  flattered  by  a  special  attention 
of  the  chef  to  his  yearnings  for  boiled  mutton,  soft- 
ened into  a  joke  which  seemed  to  give  a  final  touch 
of  intensity  to  the  prevailing  gloom.  The  meal 
might  have  been  a  total  failure  but  for  the  happy 
accident  of  a  report,  in  stealthy  circulation,  which 
seemed  to  divide  the  honors  of  curiosity  between  Mr. 
Gooding  and  the  prince.  It  was  whispered  that  the 
young  Californian  was  the  agent  in  advance  of  a  new 
colossal  combination  which  was  to  make  the  roast 
beef  of  old  England  a  mere  side-dish  to  American 
pork  and  beans.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  cause  of  the 
attentions  which  were  showered  on  him  in  conse- 
quence ;  but,  being  human,  he  could  only  be  pleased 
by  their  effect.  Strong  men  sought  to  catch  his  eye 
with  glances  of  respect.  Beautiful  and  high-born 
women  unmistakably  gave  him  permission  to  offer  his 

278 


The  Yellow  Van 

homage  at  a  later  stage.  The  Bruce  himself,  for  the 
moment,  was  in  eclipse.  Arthur's  looks  and  his  un- 
failing courtesy  were  other  things  that  told  in  his 
favor.  He  was  surrounded  in  the  drawing-room, 
while  the  Bruce  scattered  incivilities  in  his  path 
without  so  much  as  the  correction  of  a  fan. 

The  support  of  his  own  countrywomen  set  the  seal 
on  Mr.  Gooding  's  success.  A  few  gave  it  reluctantly, 
under  the  uneasy  suspicion  that  he  might,  after  all, 
be  only  something  in  literature  or  art.  They  were 
naturally  more  exclusive  in  this  respect  than  the 
society  whose  manners  they  aped.  His  relationship 
to  the  duchess,  his  education,  and  his  bearing  would 
not  have  sufficed ;  for,  to  say  .the  truth,  these  fastidi- 
ous persons  were  only  watching  for  the  opportunity 
of  snubbing  Augusta  as  a  parvenue  in  her  own  home. 
She  had  not  given  them  the  opportunity;  that  was 
all.  The  rumor  of  her  brother's  share  in  cosmic 
finance  seemed  to  decide  the  matter  in  his  favor. 

"I  am  still  not  so  sure  that  he  is  in  New  York 
society,"  said  one  of  them  to  Lady  Ogreby,  "but  I 
will  go  as  far  as  this :  if  both  of  us  were  there  now, 
I  should  send  him  a  card  for  my  next  party." 

Lady  Ogreby,  a  plain  woman  in  more  senses  than 
one,  seemed  mystified. 

"Because  he  's  rich?" 

"No;  not  that,  exactly." 

"I  see.    He  has  such  nice  manners." 

"Oh,  dear,  no." 

"Then  manners  don't  count?" 

"Yes,  they  do;  and  yet—" 

279 


The  Yellow  Van 

"And  wealth  is  not  everything?" 
"On  the  contrary;  yet— 
"And  you  've  no  such  thing  as  rank?" 
"In  one  way  of  looking  at  it;  but—" 
The  old  lady  listened  in  a  state  of  stupefaction. 
Her  only  clear  impression  was  a  confirmation  of  her 
dislike  of  the  subtleties  of  the  Athanasian  creed. 

The  entertainment  put  a  stop  to  further  conversa- 
tion. It  was  of  the  usual  kind:  stars  of  opera  at  a 
guinea  a  note ;  a  short  drawing-room  comedy  in  one 
act  by  distinguished  amateurs,  most  superbly  cos- 
tumed; a  fencing-bout  by  a  French  and  an  English 
performer  of  the  first  distinction.  A  zenana  dance 
by  a  young  lady,  wherewith  the  Points  had  hoped  to 
secure  a  little  of  the  fun  of  the  fair,  had  been  ruled 
out  by  the  blue  pencil.  The  discomfited  party 
yawned  through  the  program  until  the  withdrawal 
of  the  royal  pair  enabled  them  to  seek  their  consola- 
tion in  the  smoking-room.  Hard  fate,  however,  at- 
tended them  even  here.  The  Squares  invaded  this 
scene  of  repose  with  the  royal  duke  at  their  head. 
For  a  time  the  talk,  in  deference  to  his  tastes,  turned 
almost  exclusively  on  the  prospects  of  to-morrow's 
sport.  But  Providence  was  still  watchful  over  the 
dispirited  faction,  and  at  the  third  cigarette  he  took 
his  leave,  with  the  most  of  the  Squares  in  his  train. 
It  is  the  unwritten  law  of  such  gatherings  every- 
where :  the  Points  usually  sit  out  the  others,  but,  until 
this  comes  to  pass,  the  conversation  is  kept  within 
the  safest  limits.  At  a  later  period  it  takes,  if  not 
a  wider,  a  more  personal,  range ;  and  with  the  small 

280 


The  Yellow  Van 

hours  it  is  apt  to  descend  to  scandals,  with  those  who 
feel  themselves  sure  of  one  another  both  in  taste  and 
in  respect  for  the  professional  secret.  When  suc- 
cessive reductions  have  brought  about  a  final  sur- 
vival of  the  unfittest,  you  may  hear  anything  you 
are  willing  to  listen  to.  As  the  hours  wore  on,  that 
glittering  Point,  Tom  Penniquicke,  was  telling  how 
the  true  heir  to  the  greatest  peerage  in  England  now 
languished  as  a  publican  on  one  of  his  late  father's 
town  estates,  for  want  of  the  power  to  establish  his 
rights,  if  not  even  of  the  very  knowledge  of  them— 
confined  to  Tom  and  his  set.  He  was  also  able  to 
show  how  the  equally  innocent  usurper  of  his  title 
was  really  of  peasant  origin  on  one  side.  It  was 
rather  fresh  to  the  listeners,  but  the  servants  knew 
it  all  by  heart. 

And  the  evening  and  two  o  'clock  the  next  morning 
were  the  first  day. 


281 


XXXII 


HE  Square-Toed  faction  of  the 
court  held  the  field,  and  all  was 
moral  improvement  at  Allonby 
Castle.  The  frivolous  Pointed 
Toes  were  still  in  eclipse.  Mr. 
Raif  saw  that  the  chance  of  his 
life  had  come,  and  he  made  the  most  of  it.  If  he 
could  interest  the  royal  visitors  in  his  ministrations 
to  the  village  poor,  it  might  be  the  first  step  to  a 
bishopric.  He  was  a  sort  of  despatch  agent  of  bless- 
ings, earthly  and  divine.  With  him  the  model  town- 
ship was  a  sheepfold,  with  a  shepherd  who  was  the 
beneficent  tyrant  of  its  flock.  In  short,  he  was  the 
middleman  fighting  for  his  own,  an  extremity  in 
which  the  middleman  is  dour.  He  was  keen  to  detect 
any  infringement  of  his  priestly  right  to  the  control 
of  the  human  conscience.  His  choice  example  of  the 
inadequacy  of  religious  instruction  in  the  board 
schools  was  an  unfortunate  reference  to  the  colum- 
bines of  Solomon  which  he  professed  to  have  had 
from  a  town-bred  child. 

And  in  so  far  as  he  consented  in  his  own  mind  to 
share  the  dignities  and  tEe  emoluments  of  agency, 
he  could  act  only  with  the  nobility  and  gentry. 
These  and  the  clergy  combined  were  the  appointed 

282 


The  Yellow  Van 

leaders  of  the  people ;  and  Mr.  Raif  was  as  sure  that 
the  latter  wanted  leading  in  body  and  in  soul  as  any 
of  his  forerunners.  He  held  firmly  to  the  view  of  re- 
ligion as  mainly  an  affair  of  apparatus  that  finds  so 
much  favor  in  our  day.  When  in  London  he  always 
attended  the  ministrations  of  a  colleague  who  enticed 
to  brighter  worlds  by  means  of  lantern-slides  sand- 
wiched in  between  the  prayers  and  the  sermon,  and 
by  catchy  advertisements  of  the  variety-show  of  the 
Sunday  to  come.  These  methods,  as  being  specially 
suited  to  the  treatment  of  the  working-classes,  were 
much  admired  by  the  superior  clergy.  Their  in- 
ventor was  understood  to  be  assiduously  preaching 
the  art  of  standing  on  his  head  in  the  pulpit  by  way 
of  crowning  the 'edifice  of  the  conversion  of  England. 
Mr.  Raif  was  much  interested  just  now  in  a 
scheme  for  winning  Job  Gurt,  the  village  sot,  to  total 
abstinence.  The  blacksmith  had  fallen  on  evil  times 
in  spite  of  his  "good  money."  As  his  potations  in- 
creased with  plentiful  earnings,  his  staying  power 
at  work  naturally  diminished.  He  had  finally  been 
compelled  to  make  overtures  for  assistance,  through 
his  wife,  to  the  domestic  chaplain,  and  had  been  given 
to  understand  that  redress  of  grievance  must  pre- 
cede the  grant  of  charitable  supplies.  Job"  was  in- 
teresting as  a  character  so  materially  minded  that 
he  could  only  conceive  the  resurrection  of  the  body 
as  an  effect  of  pins  and  needles  after  unrefreshing 
sleep.  The  chaplain  had  formed  the  laudable  de- 
sign of  wrestling  for  the  possession  of  him  with  the 
powers  of  darkness  as  represented  by  the  Knuckle 

283 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  Veal.  He  seemed  likely  to  be  successful :  Job  had 
capitulated  on  the  imminence  of  a  Saturday  night 
without  the  prospect  of  a  Sunday's  dinner. 

On  the  Friday  evening,  accordingly,  the  penitent 
was  seated  in  the  little  club-house  of  the  model  vil- 
lage, with  a  determination  to  make  himself  as  merry 
as  circumstances  admitted.  Mr.  Raif  was  prepared 
to  meet  him  more  than  half-way.  The  gathering  was 
avowedly  for  a  convivial  purpose,  but  its  members 
were  to  wet  their  whistles  with  mineral  waters  for 
the  bacchanalian  songs  dear  to  the  old  condition  of 
lapse.  Mr.  Raif  was  in  some  measure  the  patentee 
of  it,  and  he  was  proud  of  the  achievement.  With 
the  one  exception  of  the  intoxicant,  the  associations 
were  to  be  as  nearly  like  those  of  the  Knuckle  of 
Veal  as  the  circumstances  allowed.  The  scheme  was 
based  on  the  idea  of  the  coffee-tavern,  in  which  the 
tippler  is  supposed  to  accept  harmless  liquors  as  a 
full  and  sufficient  equivalent  for  strong  drink,  by 
having  permission  to  call  for  them  at  a  dismal  bar. 
Its  inventors  have  forgotten  that,  with  all  its  faults, 
the  bar  of  perdition  is  at  least  bright. 

The  struggle  won  the  sympathetic  attention  of  the 
village.  There  was  a  crowd  about  the  club-house 
door  to  witness  the  arrival  of  Job.  It  was  felt  that 
his  was  a  test  case,  and,  moreover,  that  Satan  was 
prepared  to  regard  it  in  that  light.  Discomfited  in 
this  encounter,  the  fiend  would  probably  trouble  Slo- 
cum  no  more. 

Half-past  seven  was  the  time  for  the  revel,  and 
at  that  hour  the  wretched  Job  entered  the  institute 

284 


The  Yellow  Van 

with  Mr.  Grimber,  as  a  kind  of  sponsor,  by  his  side. 
The  retired  cockney  tallow-chandler  was  as  yet  no 
convert,  but  he  had  come  down,  by  invitation,  to  see 
how  he  liked  it,  and  to  report  afterward  to  his  own 
soul. 

Mr.  Raif  was  at  the  door  to  meet  them ;  and  shaking 
both  cordially  by  the  hand,  he  invited  Job's  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  it  was  a  fine  evening  with  per- 
haps less  success  than  he  had  a  right  to  expect. 

The  blacksmith  looked  round  the  room,  and  found 
it  at  once  as  near  to  the  pleasures  of  imagination 
and  yet  as  far  from  those  of  sense  as  the  star  in  the 
poem.  The  floor  was  sanded;  the  long,  hard  settle 
by  the  fireplace  yielded  hardly  a  point  in  discomfort 
to  the  like  contrivance  at  the  Knuckle  of  Veal.  There 
were  real  pipes  over  the  mantelpiece,  long  and  white, 
as  though  they  were  meant  for  business.  From  sheer 
force  of  habit  the  unhappy  man  stretched  out  his 
hand  for  one  of  them,  and,  addressing  the  boy  in 
waiting,— made  up  with  real  apron  and  real  shirt- 
sleeves,—called  for  a  screw  of  tobacco. 

"A  very  natural  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Raif,  ur- 
banely, but  with  a  frown  that  silenced  the  rising 
titter.  ''Bring  a  little  soap  and  water:  Job  might 
like  to  blow  a  bubble  or  two.  We  are  no  foes  to 
innocent  recreation  here.  We  welcome  it,  in  fact." 

It  was  brought,  and  Mr.  Raif  blew  a  few  bubbles 
by  way  of  example.  One  of  them  made  its  way  out 
of  the  window.  It  was  followed  on  the  opening  of 
its  journey  into  infinite  space  with  a  shout  by  the 
urchins,  and  a  smile,  as  of  happy  omen,  by  Mrs. 

285 


The  Yellow  Van 

Gurt  and  other  matrons  who  had  now  joined  the 
group. 

Job  shook  his  head,  relinquished  the  pipe,  and 
pushed  the  dish  of  soap-suds  from  him  as  he  might 
have  done  some  new  variety  of  tipple  repugnant  to 
the  conservatism  of  his  British  taste. 

"Not  me,"  he  whispered  to  his  henchman. 

' '  Time  's  flying,  Jasper, ' '  said  Mr.  Raif.  ' '  I  think 
we  'd  better  get  on." 

The  man  addressed,  an  old  shepherd  whose  guid- 
ing principle  of  action  seemed  to  be  to  stand  well 
with  the  parson,  took  the  chair  without  further  in- 
vitation, and  with  the  brief  remark,  "Give  your  or- 
ders, gents." 

"Now,  Gurt,"  cried  Mr.  Raif,  cheerily,  "ginger- 
beer,  soda,  lemonade— squash,  if  you  fancy  it;  but 
it  '11  cost  you  a  ha'penny  more." 

"Pop,"  murmured  Job,  in  the  tone  of  a  dying 
man 

"Gents,"  said  the  chairman,  when  all  were  served, 
"the  usual  loyal.  Charge  your  glasses.  The 
Queen !"  It  was  part  of  Mr.  Raif 's  method  to  begin 
the  evening  with  this  toast  as  a  happy  compromise 
between  a  brutish  indifference  to  the  providential 
order  and  inadmissible  prayer. 

Job  sipped  his  ginger-beer  as  a  sign  that  he  wished 
no  harm  to  constituted  authority,  but,  for  the  rest, 
seemed  to  reserve  his  opinion.  The  others,  who  were 
better  used  to  it,  drank  with  less  evident  distaste. 

Mr.  Raif  was  the  only  person  who  showed  no  mis- 

286 


The  Yellow  Van 

giving.  He  was  quite  convinced  that  this  was  the 
entirely  proper  way  with  the  humbler  classes.  You 
trained  them,  and  they  obeyed  as  naturally  as  shrubs 
took  their  cue  from  the  volition  of  the  gardener.  He 
patted  Job  on  the  back  as  though  he  were  a  kind  of 
scapegoat  for  the  inflictions  of  the  whole  party. 
"That  's  right,  boys;  keep  it  up.  I  must  leave  you 
now.  Sing,  drink  anything  you  like— within  the 
rules.  There  they  are  on  the  wall.  And  don't  for- 
get Rule  XIII— break  up  at  half-past  nine." 

There  was  silence  after  he  left.  It  might  have 
been  a  perfectly  tolerable  silence  if  it  had  not  been 
so  heavily  charged  with  self -consciousness  and  the 
sense  of  playing  a  part. 

"I  s'pose  we  'd  better  go  on,"  said  Jasper,  look- 
ing timidly  at  the  door  by  which  their  tyrant  had 
left. 

"Aye;  sing  a  bit,  an'  get  it  over,  man,"  said  an- 
other. "He  '11  'ear  'e  pretty  sharp  if  ye  doan't. 
Then  we  might  have  a  game  at  baggytelle." 

"Well,  couldn't  ye  tune  up  a  bit,  Job?"  asked 
Jasper.  "  '  In  Cellar  Deep '— '  D '  ye  ken  John  Peel  ? ' 
—  any  blessed  thing  ye  like.  I  've  beared  ye  're  a 
pretty  good  performer." 

"Mate,  I  ain't  got  a  note  in  me,"  moaned  Job, 
from  the  depths  of  his  anatomy,  "to  save  my  life." 

"Give  us  'Cellar  Deep,'  Jasper;  that  may 
start  un." 

The  chairman  accordingly  cleared  his  throat  and 
set  out  in  his  quavering  way  through  a  bacchanalian 

287 


The  Yellow  Van 

poem  of  a  whole-hearted  depravity  of  taste  that 
makes  it  unique  in  the  language : 

"In  cel-lar  deep  I  sit  and  keep 

My  soul  from  cares  op-pres-sing, 
Com-pan-ion  mine,  the  good  Khine  wine, 

Earth's  sweet-est,  tru-est  bless-ing. 
With  so-lemn  pate  let  wis-dom  prate 

Of  what  we  should  be  think-in g : 
Give  me  my  glass;  my  days  shall  pass 

In  drink-ing,  drink-ing,  drink-ing." 

Done,  as  it  was  on  this  occasion,  in  split  sodas,  it 
is  the  very  triumph  of  make-believe.  But  in  the 
idle  singing  of  our  empty  day  it  has  probably  been 
the  cause  of  more  hypocrisy  than  any  other  song  in 
the  world.  Its  reckless  burden  shows  how  easily  it 
may  have  lent  itself  to  mere  pot-valiancy  at  the  best 
of  times.  Few  could  have  hoped  to  live  up  to  this 
ideal,  even  in  the  Georgian  ages  of  faith.  And  in 
ours  it  is  almost  confessedly  the  hollow  lie  of  the 
smug  tradesman  at  his  masonic  dinner  and  of  the 
basso  of  the  convivial  club.  The  syllabic  pauses  in 
the  measure  of  the  chorus  are  obligatory  for  their 
effect  of  intensity  of  conviction.  And  when  the  last 
one  of  them  has  been  rendered,  with  due  effect, 
from  the  very  depths  of  being,  one  is  transported  to 
a  world  of  good-fellowship  which  seems  a  foretaste 
of  the  stars.  There  is  no  time  so  propitious  for  the 
borrowing  of  half-crowns.  But  in  our  decorous  day 
it  is  no  more  than  a  reminiscence  of  some  golden 

288 


The  Yellow  Van 

age  when  rack  punch  produced  no  headache  and 
Irish  twist  was  good  for  the  bile.  The  basso  is  only 
playing  at  it,  and  is  probably  the  most  exemplary 
of  bank-clerks.  His  hearers  are  only  playing  at  it ; 
but  their  occasional  sips  of  real  strong  waters  are 
great  helps  to  the  make-believe  of  the  game.  Yet 
there  are  limits  to  this  power  of  illusion;  and,  for 
all  but  the  strongest  natures,  tea  and  cocoa  and  even 
temperance  champagne  are  a  too  abrupt  descent 
from  the  heights  of  artificial  stimulation  which  they 
are  supposed  to  feign. 

The  first  verse  was  enough  for  poor  Job.  After 
an  ineffectual  attempt  to  bear  his  part  in  the  chorus, 
he  set  down  his  untasted  cup  of  institute  coffee  and 
staggered  forth  into  the  night,  brushing  from  his 
path  the  inquisitive  group  at  the  door. 

" Blessed  if  he  ain't  got  's  load  in  spite  of  'em," 
said  one  of  the  women. 

"Nay,"  said  his  more  experienced  spouse,  sorrow- 
fully; "it  's  only  temper  this  time,  I  reckon— and 
the  wuss  of  the  two. ' ' 

All  expected  to  see  him  wend  his  way  to  the 
Knuckle  of  Veal,  but  they  were  deceived.  He  made 
straight  for  his  own  cottage,  pursued  by  the  echoes 
of 

"Pour  out  the  Rhine  wine,  let  it  flow 
Like  a  full  and  shining  river," 

which  the  company  were  now  washing  down  with 
sassafras,  a  new  beverage  just  introduced  to  their 
notice  by  Mr.  Raif. 

289 


XXXIII 


ATURDAY  afternoon,  and  Job  in 
a  bit  of  fairyland  all  by  himself, 
smoking  his  pipe  on  the  trunk  of 
a  fallen  tree.  He  has  not  wholly 
lapsed,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  ex- 
perience of  yesterday.  The  pipe 
may  be  a  backsliding,  but  there  is  still  a  good  half- 
mile  of  innocence  between  him  and  the  can  of  the 
Knuckle  of  Veal.  He  is  in  a  broad  glade  of  wood- 
land, bright  in  the  sunshine  of  winter,  and  inde- 
structibly beautiful  all  the  year  round.  There  is 
temptation,  however,  at  each  end,  for  at  the  farther 
one  stands  the  inn  of  the  Duke  and  the  Ditcher. 
Both  houses  are  rooted  only  less  deep  in  time  than 
the  wood  itself.  The  latter  is  part  of  an  old  royal 
chase  where  thousands  of  fat  bucks  have  died  the 
death  according  to  the  laws  of  forestry.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  charm  of  this  winding  way  between 
the  two  taverns,  with  its  tiny  river,  broadening  here 
and  there  into  pools  where  the  fish  often  play  at 
hide-and-seek  with  the  flashes  of  light  and  with  the 
flies  caught  in  their  ray.  But  all  this,  being  a  thing 
of  use  and  wont,  is  quite  thrown  away  upon  Job. 
He  is  certainly  not  thinking  of  its  history,  running 

290 


The  Yellow  Van 

back  into  the  very  Saxon  time,  of  its  weird  old 
manor-house,  where  they  hatched  one  of  the  deadliest 
plots  in  English  annals,  of  its  caves  once  haunted 
by  the  outlaw  bands  whose  industry  was  plunder. 
Every  tree  may  conceivably  have  its  story  of  tryst 
and  council,  and  even  of  summary  execution  when 
the  deer-stealer  caught  red-handed  was  hoisted  high 
in  the  wind.  Wicked  old  trees  they  look,  for  all  their 
beauty.  Most  of  their  coating  of  bark  is  gone  for- 
ever, and  some  lie  grim  and  unrepentant  in  their 
ruin,  where  the  winter  storms,  rather  than  the  wood- 
man, have  cut  them  down. 

So  there  sits  Job  on  one  of  them,  musing  on  the 
hardness  of  the  road  to  Jordan,  and  between  two 
portals  of  Paradise  barred  to  him  by  his  vow.  His 
back  is  turned  on  the  village  and  on  the  Knuckle 
of  Veal,  but  for  this  very  reason  his  face  is  toward 
that  point  of  the  compass  where  the  Duke  and  the 
Ditcher  is  visible  to  the  eye  of  faith.  Look  which 
way  he  will,  in  fact,  there  is  a  snare  of  the  enemy. 
And  presently  a  fellow-creature  comes  in  sight,  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  Grimber,  strolling  from  the  hamlet 
served  by  the  last-named  house. 

' 'Day,  Job." 

"Day,  Mr.  GrimEer." 

The  slight  distinction  in  the  mode  of  salutation 
was  due  to  Grimber  as  a  man  of  independent  means. 

"Home  all  right  last  night,  Job?" 

"Couldn't  very  well  go  wrong,  as  I  see." 

Mr.  Grimber,  as  already  explained,  had  squired 
Job  in  his  quest  of  repentance.  He  had  no  ex- 

291 


The  Yellow  Van 

cesses  of  his  own  to  correct,  but  he  had  thought 
it  neighborly  to  stand  by  a  friend  in  his  hour  of 
trial. 

"Nice  thing  to  be  able  to  get  up  in  the  mornin' 
without  a  head  on  ye. ' ' 

"It  is  that,"  said  Job,  dutifully. 

' '  And  with  your  money  in  your  pocket. ' ' 

"That's  so." 

"A  week  more  of  it,  and  you  '11  be  like  me." 

He  said  it  with  a  certain  sadness,  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  pitied  his  crony  in  the  prospect.  His  secret 
longing  was  for  something  to  give  a  pulse  to  life. 
It  was  the  stronger  now  that,  for  Job 's  sake,  he  had 
cut  himself  off  from  his  modest  potation  and  the 
chatter  of  the  inn.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  the  per- 
fect ratepayer,  but  that  Nirvana  of  civic  propriety 
has  its  drawbacks  and  its  trials.  It  is  attainable  only 
by  a  series  of  negations,  and  these  are  hard  fare  for 
the  spirit  of  man.  Grimber  hardly  knew  what  was 
the  matter  with  him,  except  that  he  was  weary  of 
his  own  perfections.  He  had  never  done  wrong,  in 
so  far  as  he  could  detect  the  thing  by  his  limited 
knowledge  of  its  opposite,  yet  he  had  still  missed 
his  reward.  His  religion  was  a  matter  of  what  he 
regarded  as  "decent  observance"— a  silk  hat  on 
Sundays,  a  black  coat,  alertness  in  the  responses,  a 
recognizable  contribution  to  the  volume  of  the 
hymn.  His  domestic  icon  was  a  lithograph  of  a 
royal  family  that  he  honored  not  only  with  his  lips 
but  with  his  heart.  He  called  one  of  its  members, 
who  was  prudence  personified,  "our  sailor  prince," 
and  tried  to  figure  him  to  consciousness  as  a  rollick- 

292 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  blade.  He  was  of  that  lowest  middle  class  that 
is  a  bulwark  of  Britain,  and  at  once  its  pride  and 
its  despair.  His  gospel  was  convention,  his  law  the 
fiat  of  his  betters  in  church  and  state.  His  life  as  a 
retired  tallow-chandler  was  almost  absolutely  without 
events.  Its  terrific  sensations  were  the  unwonted 
recurrence  of  a  grand  bezique  and  a  sequence  in  the 
same  hand ;  its  herculean  labors,  the  turning  out  of 
the  corner  cupboard  this  day  week,  or  the  fortnightly 
polishing  of  a  watch-case  with  shammy  leather  with- 
out injury  to  the  works.  And  yet  and  yet —  People 
behindhand  with  their  rent,  and  actually  without 
hope  of  mercy  for  unpaid  rates,  seemed  sometimes 
to  get  so  much  more  out  of  life. 

"Which  way  are  you  walking?"  he  said  to  Job. 

"Yourn,  if  you  like." 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  gettin'  'ome  again." 

So  they  turned  toward  the  hamlet,  still  following 
the  fairy  pathway  of  the  glade. 

"I  sometimes  feel  funny-like,  in  a  manner  of 
speakin',"  Mr.  Grimber  said. 

It  was  a  difficult  complaint  to  diagnose  on  such  in- 
dications. Job  did  not  make  the  attempt.  "I  Ve 
felt  that  way  myself,"  was  his  reply. 

The  hamlet  was  now  in  sight,  its  most  conspicuous 
object  an  ornamental  glass  Hall,  quicksilvered  in 
laundry  blue,  which  marked  the  garden-patch  of 
Mr.  Grimber 's  home. 

"Will  you  come  in  and  have  a  bottle  o' — pop?" 
said  Mr.  Grimber.  "Or,  stop  a  minute:  I  '11  bring 
it  outside.  It  's  cleanin'-up  day,  an'  she  might  fancy 
there  was  mud  on  our  boots." 

293 


The  Yellow  Van 

"If  there  was  any  other  place,  we  need  n't  trouble 
her,  need  us?"  said  Job. 

There  was  a  creaking  noise  overhead:  it  was  the 
sign  of  the  Duke  and  the  Ditcher  swinging  gently 
in  the  breeze. 

"Match  that  for  music  if  you  can,"  said  Job, 
apostrophizing  an  observant  bird. 

Mr.  Grimber  looked  up  at  the  same  moment,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"Just  one,"  said  Job.  In  another  moment  they 
were  in  the  parlor  of  the  inn. 

What  is  the  philosophy  of  this  wretched  habit? 
Possibly  mere  association  of  ideas.  Certain  it  is 
that,  hitherto  of  all  creatures  the  most  forlorn,  Job 
no  sooner  had  an  earthenware  pitcher  Before  him, 
nay,  sniffed  its  mere  coming  in  the  ale-house  reek, 
than  he  became  quite  another  man.  And,  curiously 
enough,  nature,  powerless  over  him  till  now,  began 
to  woo  him  with  effect.  He  chirruped  responsively 
to  P  robin  on  the  window-sill,  plucked  a  twig  from 
the  garden  and  put  it  in  his  coat.  To  feel  this  top 
of  the  morning  in  one's  blood  without  the  help  of 
fermentations  must  be  the  triumph  of  the  strenuous 
life.  Perhaps,  indeed,  there  is  no  feeling  it  without 
some  extraneous  aid :  it  is  as  hard  a  problem  as  ever 
to  lift  yourself  in  your  own  basket.  Natures  are  to 
be  known  and  classed  by  the  aids  they  seek.  Shall 
it  be  woman's  eyes,  stringed  instruments,  or  a  bottle 
and  a  jug? 

It  was  much  the  same  with  Grimber.  Both  men, 
clown  and  tallow-chandler,  became  in  a  trice  hu- 

294 


The  Yellow  Van 

mane,  courteous,  affable,  preventive,  according  to 
their  degree  and  their  breeding  in  every  service  of 
the  gentler  life— extraordinary  creatures  that  we  are. 

"We  known  each  other  a  long  time,  Mr.  Grimber." 

"  An'  respected  each  other,  I  'ope,  Mr.  Gurt ;  't  any 
rate,  I-" 

"Call  me  Job,  if  you  doan'  mind.    Funny  I  never 
'eared  your  Christian  name." 

"It  ain't  much  of  a  one  for  friendship— Ebenezer. 
Grim  's  what  she  calls  me." 

"You  're  a  trump-card,  Grim." 

"I  do  my  best." 

' '  I  ain  't  used  this  place  much :  my  end  's  the 
Knuckle  o'  Veal." 

"Nor  me,  either.  This  one  's  a  bit  too  near  the 
'ouse." 

"An',  besides,  there  isn't  the  same  company.  I 
will  say  that,  Grim." 

"Ever  hear  the  story  o'  the  sign?" 

"Yes,  an'  want  to  'ear  it  ag'in." 

"Well,  it  's  like  this.  Years  an'  years  ago  there 
was  another  Duke  of  Allonby,  an'  he  was  'untin' 
in  these  parts— in  the  days  when  'untin'  was  some- 
thin'  like.  He  'ad  young  noblemen  to  'old  'is  ster- 
rups  for  'im  when  'e  mounted,  an'  'e  was  as  good 
as  a  king.  Well,  one  day  he  'd  gone  on  so  greedy 
after  a  fat  buck  that  he  lost  all  'is  people  an'  'e  finds 
'isself  alone. 

"There  was  a  ditcher  at  work  by  the  roadside,  an' 
the  duke  'e  runs  up  to  ask  'is  way.  But,  afore  he 
could  get  a  start,  the  ditcher  'e  says:  'Young  man, 

295 


The  Yellow  Van 

they  say  the  duke  's  a-'untin'  in  these  parts;  I  '11 
stand  a  jug  o'  ale  if  you  can  point  'im  out.  I  bin 
'is  bondman  for  thirty  year,'  'e  says,  'an'  I  've  a 
fancy  to  see  the  look  of  'im  before  I  die. ' 

"  'Brown  ale?'  says  the  duke. 

"  'Brown  an'  nappy,'  says  the  ditcher. 

"  'Come  wi'  me,'  says  the  duke. 

"  '  'Ow  'm  I  to  know  it  's  'im  before  I  part  wi' 
my  money  ? '  says  the  ditcher.  'E  was  no  fool. 

"  "E  '11  be  the  only  man  wearin'  'is  'at,'  says  the 
duke,  'when  all  the  others  is  standin'  around.' 

"  'Then  I  can  show  ye  where  they  others  is,'  says 
the  ditcher. 

' '  So  they  jogged  on  till  they  came  to  a  great  open 
place— over  yonder  to  this  day— where  all  the  no- 
bility an'  gentry  was  standin'  about,  with  a  sort 
o'  worried  look,  waitin'  for  their  master. 

"The  moment  they  see  'im,  down  they  goes  on 
their  knees,  off  goes  their  'ats  (bonnets  they  called 
'em  in  those  times,  both  male  an'  female),  an'  they 
begins  'orn-blowin'  for  joy. 

"  'Which  be  the  duke?'  says  the  ditcher. 

"  'Well,  us  two  is  the  only  ones  kivered,'  says  t' 
other:  'so  it  must  be  either  you  or  me.' 

"Down  drops  the  ditcher  on  both  knees,  with 
'is  'ands  up.  'Spare  a  poor  man's  life,  my  lord,' 
says  'e. 

"  'Where  's  that  jug  of  ale?'  says  the  duke, 
laughin';  an'  they  rode  off  to  this  very  'ouse  to 
'  'ave  it,  with  all  the  others  trampin'  behind. 

"When  they  'd  finished  it,  the  duke  'e  stands  'im 

296 


The  Yellow  Van 

one  more,  an'  then,  'I  make  you  my  'ead  forester,' 
'e  says— just  like  that.  Them  was  the  days!" 

"An'  all  dead  an'  gone,"  said  Job. 

"We  must  be  stirrin',  lad,"  said  Grimber,  relaps- 
ing into  melancholy.  "Enough  's  as  good  as  a 
feast." 

"You  might  see  me  a  bit  o'  the  way  'ome,"  said 
Job.  "I  'm  close  to  the  Knuckle." 

"I  know  it,  lad;  too  close.  There  's  your  trouble, 
Job." 

"I  like  your  company.  I  never  knew  the  kind 
o'  man  you  was  till  this  day." 

"I-she!" 

They  went  back  through  the  wood  talking  of  good 
men  aging,  good  men  gone,  touching  life  with  the 
poetry  without  which  it  is  a  dead  thing  to  the  dull- 
est soul.  The  lowest  wretch  lives  on  only  for  the 
hope  of  hours  like  these.  We  must  idealize  human 
relations  or  die.  Every  man  is  a  poet,  if  only  the 
few  sing.  The  British  navvy,  that  thing  of  granite, 
is  quite  mawkish  in  his  cups,  and  gushes  with  a 
fervor  that  would  put  a  miss  in  her  teens  to  shame. 
The  boor  of  Teniers  sees  heaven  as  a  transparency 
through  the  Bottom  of  his  upturned  can.  The  whole 
business  of  saint,  sage,  and  social  reformer  is  to  help 
us  to  see  it  without  a  headache  next  morning.  Music 
is  perhaps  only  an  alcoholic  wave  purged  of  its 
grossness.  Where  would  the  devil  be  but  for  the 
dullness  of  some  lives?  Their  talk  was  worthy  of 
the  wood,  of  the  sunshine,  of  the  luminous  shade 
below  it,  of  the  whole  beautiful  world. 

297 


The  Yellow  Van 

Then  they  came  to  the  Knuckle  of  Veal. 

The  Knuckle  of  Veal  understood  it  all  in  a  glance, 
and  gave  them  "the  time  of  day,"  but  took  no  other 
notice,  as  they  fell  into  their  accustomed  places. 

It  was  as  old  in  memories  as  the  Duke  and  the 
Ditcher,  and  just  such  another  shanty  of  prehistoric 
planks  in  the  upper  story,  rough-cast,  and  Eliza- 
bethan brickwork  in  the  lower,  tile  and  thatch  above, 
blackened  beams  to  hold  it  all  together,  old  brown 
outhouses  where  Jack  Ostler  had  called  to  Tom  Tap- 
ster in  the  earliest  coaching  times,  and  thirty  far- 
mers' chaises,  all  with  yellow  wheels,  had  been  put 
upon  market-days;  a  tap-room  with  a  fireplace 
of  wrought  iron  whereto  generations  of  shepherds 
watching  their  flocks  by  night  had  stolen  from  the 
hills  for  furtive  comfort  to  talk  the  Armada  and  the 
landing  of  the  Dutch  king ;  a  wainscot  pock-marked 
all  over  with  the  incised  initials  of  countless  dead, 
monumental  in  its  way,  as  deciphered  by  that 
Academy  of  Inscriptions,  the  ale-bench  and  the  old- 
est inhabitant.  What  are  you  to  do  with  such  a 
place  but  keep  out  of  it  ?  And  in  this  they  failed. 

"Only  a  drain  this  time,"  said  Grimber.  "I  've 
got  my  measure." 

"Tol-lol!  tol-lol!"  sang  Job.  "Give  us  a  toast, 
old  corpse-light!" 

It  was  purely  accidental,  but  unfortunate.  Grim- 
ber's  father  had  been  an  undertaker. 

"Who  're  ye  gettin'  at?"  he  said,  putting  down 
his  glass. 

298 


The  Yellow  Van 

"It 's  my  fun,  like,"  explained  Job.  "No  offense, 
cocky. ' ' 

"I  don't  like  your  fun,"  said  Grimber.  "I  bin 
a  ratepayer  for  forty  year. ' ' 

"Ratepayer  yourself,"  said  Job,  incoherently. 

"Wish  I  could  return  the  compliment." 

' '  That  's  a  snack  't  me,  I  s  'pose. ' ' 

"Take  it  as  y'  like." 

There  was  sullen  silence  for  a  while. 

Job  resumed:  "Pity  to  spoil  a  good  meetin'.  Will 
y '  'ave  a  sentiment  from  me  ? ' ' 

"Out  with  it." 

"  '  'Eart  to  'eart  an'  'and  to  'and.'  " 

"That  's  better,"  said  the  other,  returning  his 
grip. 

"Tol-lol!  tol-lol!"  sang  Job. 

"Must  be  going  now,"  said  Grimber. 

"I  '11  see  yer  a  bit  of  the  way." 

"Mean  to  say  you  think  I  'm— " 

"For  'eart  to  'eart  an'  'and  to  'and;  that  's  all," 
said  Job. 

They  sallied  forth  again,  arm  in  arm.  The  scene 
was  divine  to  both  of  them  now,  as  they  stepped  aside 
to  save  a  winter  flower,  giggled  at  the  reflection  of 
the  scudding  clouds  in  the  pool— veritable  babes  in 
the  wood. 

"It  's  a  gran'  world,"  said  Job.  "Take  it  fro' 
me." 

"Never  thought  there  was  so  many  respec'ble 
people  in  it." 

299 


The  Yellow  Van 

"A  gran'  life,  Grim— gran'  feller-creatur's! 
You  're  one." 

"Oh,  as  for  that—" 

"Never  thought  it,  all  the  years  I  've  known  yer. 
Fancied  you  was  a  bit  of  a  milksop." 

"No  offense;  fancied  it  myself  sometimes." 

"This  'ere  religion  they  talk  s'  much  about— 
should  n  't  wonder  if  it  was  somethin '  like  what  we  're 
feelin'  now.  Eh,  Grim?" 

" 'T  ain't  all  apistles  an'  collicks  taken  cold,  lay 
your  life." 

"One  more  at  the  Ditcher — eh,  Grim?  Then 
you  '11  see  me  a  bit  of  the  way  back?" 

Job  had  scarcely  spoken  when  a  shawled  female 
figure  came  in  sight,  and  his  fellow-sinner  was 
plucked  from  him  as  for  translation  to  another 
sphere.  It  was  done,  not  by  a  gesture,  not  by  so 
much  as  a  word :  a  single  glance  sufficed ;  but  it  was 
one  of  the  right  sort.  He  was  alone. 

It  was  a  bereavement,  yet  St.  Francis  himself 
could  hardly  have  been  at  less  loss  for  companion- 
ship. Nature,  which  Job  had  had  about  him  for  half 
a  century  without  his  being  aware  of  it,  was  there 
in  visible  presence  at  last.  "Chip,  chip,  birdikin!" 
he  cried  to  a  sparrow  in  the  path. 

Cold  obstruction  had  gone  out  of  the  whole  frame 
of  things,  moral  and  physical.  There  was  no  more 
effort  in  the  world.  He  walked  on  air,  and  with  as 
much  ease  as  any  nymph  of  Guide's  "Aurora." 
Earth  was  one  vast  pneumatic  tire. 

"Danged  if  I  couldn't  finish  it  mysen  now!"  he 

300 


The  Yellow  Van 

muttered,  as  he  neared  the  Knuckle  again.  And  he 
sat  down  on  a  fallen  trunk,  all  smooth  and  silvery 
with  eld,  and  resumed,  as  from  the  balked  innings 
of  the  night  before: 

"In  wo-man's  smile  there  may  be  guile; 

She  's  skilled  in  arts  de-ceiv-ing, 
And  she  may  be  most  false  to  me 

When  most  I  am  be-liev-ing. 
Friend  more  sin-cere  I  che-rish  here, 

While  lips  to  glass  I  'm  link-ing, 
And  corn-fort  true  the  whole  year  through— ' ' 

He  was  about  to  collect  himself  for  the  supreme 
effort  of  the  bass  note  when  a  composite  apparition 
of  a  most  extraordinary  character  came  in  full  view 
at  an  angle  of  the  glade.  It  consisted  of  the  royal 
and  ducal  party  from  the  castle,  in  charge  of  Mr. 
Raif.  The  princess  and  the  duchess  led  the  way, 
with  the  domestic  chaplain  as  cicerone.  The  per- 
sonages of  the  suite  were  a  little  in  the  background, 
with  young  Mr.  Gooding.  A  knot  of  villagers 
haunting  the  footsteps  of  the  great  folks  brought  up 
the  rear.  Mrs.  Gurt  was  among  these,  and  Constable 
Peascod  seemed  to  have  them  all  in  custody,  as  for 
some  prospective  offense.  Arthur  took  a  mean  ad- 
vantage of  his  being  out  of  his  sister's  range  of 
vision  by  showing  that  he  still  had  the  heart  to  smile. 
The  faces  of  the  others  expressed  blank  consterna- 
tion, though  a  close  observer  might  have  detected 
that  the  royal  personage  was  ready  on  short  notice 

301 


The  Yellow  Van 

to  give  way.  But  Augusta's  bearing  awed  all  within 
reach  of  her  glance.  She  looked  stern  displeasure, 
her  beautiful  head  thrown  back,  her  color  coming 
and  going,  her  lips  firm-set.  And,  as  a  slight  change 
of  position  brought  him  under  her  gaze,  Mr.  Gooding 
became  as  demure  as  the  rest,  and  looked  sadly 
toward  the  ground. 

As  for  Mr.  Raif,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  con- 
fusion. It  was  the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime  spoiled, 
and  he  gasped  dismay  as  the  bishopric  seemed  to 
fade  off  forever  into  the  things  that  might  have 
been.  He  had  been  leading  the  party  round  the 
whole  circle  of  his  good  works — the  model  village, 
and  all  its  apparatus  of  automatic  virtue,  and  the 
village  proper,  with  its  selected  poor  in  evidence 
and  the  others  out  of  sight.  He  had  arranged  his 
itinerary  so  as  to  conclude  the  demonstration  with  a 
distant  view  of  the  Knuckle  of  Veal  as  a  section 
of  the  inferno  from  which  he  had  just  rescued  a  soul 
in  torment,  when  this  wretched  mischance  occurred. 

The  only  person  quite  at  his  ease  was  the  offender. 
He  beamed  serenely  on  the  whole  party,  and  then 
tried  to  fix  the  princess  herself  with  a  smile  that  had 
in  it  unfathomed  depths  of  ineptitude. 

"Why,  Gurt,  what  is  the  meaning  of—"  began 
Mr.  Raif ;  but  the  rest  was  beyond  his  power. 

"Is  drink-ing,  drink-ing,  drink-ing," 

gurgled  the  miserable  creature,  to  conclude  his  stave. 
"Gurt,  you  're  intox— " 

302 


The  Yellow  Van 

"John  Barleycorn  beats  me,  gents.  I  'm  'appy 
when  I  'm  beat.  Good  aft 'noon,  all." 

It  was  too  painful  to  last.  The  royal  party  turned 
toward  the  castle  as  though  they  had  pressing  busi- 
ness in  that  quarter,  and  Constable  Peascod  laid 
hands  on  Job. 

"Know  the  sayin',  sir,"  cried  the  delinquent  in 
a  parting  shot  at  Mr.  Raif ,  ' '  '  When  you  die  it  's  for 
a  long  time'?" 

The  village  was  about  to  relieve  its  long-pent-up 
feelings  with  a  titter,  when  it  was  checked  by  a  glance 
at  Mrs.  Gurt.  She  followed  her  wretched  partner 
to  the  lockup  as  she  might  have  followed  him  to  his 
grave;  and  there  was  despair  in  her  face  as  he  was 
led  off,  still  wearing  his  fatuous  smile.  Like  many 
a  woman  before  her,  she  was  asking  herself  one  of 
the  bitterest  of  all  questions — whether  drink  might 
not  be  a  more  terrible  thing  to  bear  in  a  man  than 
infidelity  itself.  And,  after  all,  infidelity  of  a  kind 
it  was,  and  the  grossest.  It  was  a  counter-influence 
to  hers,  and  that  thought  made  for  jealousy  in  its 
most  corroding  pang.  The  more  sordid  her  tri- 
umphant rival,  the  more  galling  the  sense  of  her  own 
inferiority  of  attraction.  A  living  woman,  after  all, 
was  a  worthier  conqueror.  It  was  champion  against 
champion,  and  discomfiture  by  nothing  more  humili- 
ating than  the  luck  of  the  lists.  But  defeat  by  a 
mere  swinish  appetite! 

' '  Tell  him  I  think  he  's  a  brute  beast,  Mrs.  Jukes, ' ' 
she  said  to  the  inspector's  wife.  "And— jest  loosen 
his  neck-hankecher,  if  you  doan'  mind." 

3°3 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  was  frivolous  still,  and  insisted  on  giving  his 
name  as  Tobit  for  the  charge-sheet. 

There  was  this  excuse  for  him:  the  rural  station 
was  hardly  a  place  to  bring  a  man  to  repentance  with 
a  sharp  turn — prison,  if  you  like,  but  still  a  prison 
in  Arcadia.  An  old  cottage  converted  to  its  present 
uses,  it  was  rather  a  residence  for  the  two  constables 
in  charge  than  a  house  of  detention.  Its  red  brick 
stained  with  age,  its  latticed  windows  overlooking 
a  churchyard  which  seemed  but  a  change-house  on 
the  road  to  heaven,  its  walls  of  loam  and  timber  over- 
hanging a  ground  floor  that  had  once  been  upright 
but  was  now  not  ashamed  of  looking  tired,  were  all 
perfect  beauty.  So  was  the  low  doorway,  with  the 
neatly  dressed  children  playing  on  the  step,  under 
the  eye  of  a  fatherly  official  at  the  desk  within,  while 
the  house-mother  bustled  to  and  fro  between  the 
sitting-room  and  kitchen  to  make  tea.  Arcadia,  in 
spite  of  the  handcuffs  hanging  over  the  porch,  a 
feeble  effort  of  the  law  to  look  terrible  belied  by 
everything  else  in  the  place.  Emblems  merely — 
no  more.  An  emblem,  too,  the  strange  antediluvian 
contrivance — a  sort  of  scaffold-pole  with  a  hook  at 
the  end— that  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  side  wall. 
It  was  a  relic  of  the  days  when  the  villagers  strug- 
gled with  fire  as  best  they  might,  the  men  fishing  for 
goods  and  chattels  with  this  unwieldy  rod,  and  the 
women  praying  for  a  good  catch.  As  for  the  two 
cells,  they  were  but  a  mild  joke  perpetrated  at  the 
expense  of  the  outhouses  in  the  back  yard.  Job 
was  consigned  to  one  of  them  that  happened  to 

3°4 


The  Yellow  Van 

be  empty ;  the  other  still  held  the  logs  for  the  winter 
fire. 

The  inspector's  wife  had  brought  him  a  cup  of  tea 
when  he  was  locked  in.  She  presently  revisited  his 
dungeon,  though  not  officially,  to  ask  him,  through 
the  air-hole  in  the  door,  if  he  would  like  another 
lump  of  sugar.  But  there  was  a  change.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  that  most  abject  thing  on  earth, 
a  sot  whose  Dutch  courage,  Dutch  friendship,  Dutch 
faith,  hope,  and  charity,  are  passing  off.  The  sing- 
ing had  ceased ;  the  voice  within  was  one  of  weeping 
and  lamentation.  He  was  the  victim  now.  He 
maundered  over  his  sorrows,  the  injustice  of  the 
world  to  lowly  merit,  his  desertion  by  his  friends. 
He  had  been  his  own  worst  enemy,  but  only  in  being 
too  good,  too  considerate,  too  helpful  toward  the  hu- 
man race. 

The  woman,  who  could  have  passed  a  competitive 
examination  in  all  the  symptoms,  withdrew  without 
another  word. 

Left  sniveling— perhaps  over  the  thought  of  a 
motherland  drowning,  not  even  in  malmsey,  but  in 
swipes. 


20 


3°5 


XXXIV 

HE  next  day  brought  the  visit  of 
the  royal  pair  to  a  close.  They 
left  on  Monday,  with  the  same 
ceremony  as  before,  and  with  an 
air  of  benignant  weariness.  The 
Points  breathed  once  more,  and 
fresh  arrivals  added  a  reinforcement  to  their  ranks. 
It  seemed  like  old  times  again.  The  Square-Toed 
age  could  not  have  lasted;  really  distinguished  per- 
sons were  beginning  to  yawn.  The  castle  wore 
an  unmistakable  air  of  high  spirits.  The  joy  of  liv- 
ing began  to  dispute  the  empire  of  sensation  with 
the  mere  pious  opinion  of  the  certainty  of  death. 

There  was  a  check,  though— not  to  say  a  chill. 
The  public  scene  was  not  altogether  what  it  should 
be.  The  war  dragged  on,  the  government  still  cried 
for  more  men,  and  the  occasional  obligation  of 
mourning  left  the  whole  scheme  of  gaiety  at  the 
mercy  of  the  accidents  of  a  guerrilla  campaign. 

With  this  came  matter  of  still  more  serious  con- 
cern in  the  illness  of  the  sovereign.  It  was  nothing ; 
yet,  at  her  age,  anything  might  give  cause  for  anx- 
iety. There  was  a  consequent  damping  down  of  the 
fires  of  excitement,  no  more.  A  house-party  is  not 
easily  robbed  of  its  rights. 

306 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Guess  what  we  've  been  doing  all  this  after- 
noon," said  Mary  Liddicot  to  Arthur  Gooding,  who 
was  taking  her  in  to  dinner. 

"Making  mittens  for  the  soldiers." 
"Don't  be  absurd.     Playing  bridge." 
"Don't  take  a  mean  advantage:  I  daren't  echo 
the  reproof." 

"Where  's   the   absurdity?     Everybody   does   it. 
Lady  Felicia  Rawton  is  simply  mad  about  it." 
"And  a  matron  of  four-and- twenty— fie!" 
"She  and  Di  and  Twiggy  Penstone  had  a  com- 
partment  to  themselves,   and  played   all   the  way 
down  in  the  train." 

"We  seem  to  want  a  foot-note  about  'Di,'  "  said 
the  youth. 

"Oh,  Di,  from  'Diamond  cut  diamond.'     Muriel 
Paryngton  's  so  sharp.     Haven't  you  that  sort  of 
thing  among  men?     They  used  to  call  Tom — " 
"And  may  I  trouble  you  for  'Twiggy'?" 
"Never  mind  all  that.     It  's  a  most  fascinating 
game. ' ' 

"Mind  you  don't  win  all  their  money.     But  I 
suppose  you  only  play  for  hair-pins." 
"What  do  you  take  us  for— babies?" 
"Not  all  of  you,  upon  my  sacred  honor." 
"Real  coin  of  the  realm,  if  you  please.    Sixpenny 
points  sometimes. ' ' 

"Sorry  for  somebody— don't  know  for  which  one 
just  yet,  some  of  you  look  so  clever  at  the  game. ' ' 

"Nonsense:  it  's  nearly  all  luck  and— what  's  your 
funny  American  word  for  it?— bluff:  being  cheeky, 

3°7 


The  Yellow  Van 

you  know,  not  being  afraid.  And  as  for  excitement, 
well — whist  with  your  blood  running  cold." 

"No  wonder  I  couldn't  find  you  after  luncheon." 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?" 

"Can  the  grave?" 

"It  was  a  girls'  party  in  Lady  Felicia's  room. 
She  chaperons  Di  and  Twiggy.  She  's  not  my 
chaperon,  you  know;  I  belong  to  Augusta.  But 
don't  you  dare  say  a  word  to  her." 

"And  they  offered  to  take  you  in.    I  see." 

"I  wonder  if  you  mean  anything  ill-natured. 
Anyhow,  I  'm  going  to  drop  the  subject.  What  a 
fine  day  for  the  time  of  year!" 

He  took  the  rebuke  in  good  part,  and,  on  his  re- 
turn to  the  drawing-room,  discreetly  avoided  not 
only  the  topic  but  Mary  herself.  In  fact,  he  sought 
the  shelter  of  a  tropical  plant,  and  sat  idly  toying 
with  an  album  of  views  of  Allonby,  and  sometimes 
surveying  the  party  over  the  edge  of  the  cover. 

Lady  Felicia  found  him  out,  for  all  that.  She 
was  a  handsome  young  woman,— a  sort  of  creature 
of  polished  steel,  all  compact,  in  physique  and  in 
manner,— a  mighty  huntress,  but  showing  traces  of 
the  abuse  of  violent  exercise  in  an  unnatural  flush 
of  cheek  and  fire  of  eye;  for  the  rest,  as  cold  and 
hard  as  a  bar  of  Bessemer. 

"The  oracle  in  his  cave,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"No ;  only  the  hermit,  at  worst." 

"What  's  wrong  with  Lake  Shore?"  she  said  ab- 
ruptly. "They  seem  to  have  a  fit  of  the  jumps." 

Arthur  found  it  hard  to  avoid  these  questions 


The  Yellow  Van 

now  that  his  reputation  was  established  as  the  agent 
of  a  trust.  He  was  supposed  to  know  all  about  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  getting  rich. 

"I  'm  afraid  they  're  out  of  my  line,"  he  said. 

"I  know  what  that  means:  'Don't  bother  me  to- 
night. '  Never  mind ;  perhaps  you  '11  be  more  com- 
passionate to-morrow." 

She  returned  to  the  lounge  on  which  she  had  left 
her  two  charges.  One  of  these,  Muriel  Paryngton, 
Lord  Paryngton 's  daughter,  a  girl  as  tall  and  well 
knit  as  her  protectress,  had  an  extraordinary  repose 
of  bearing,  an  effect  of  nature  not  unassisted  by  art. 
The  other,  Ethel  Penstone,  was  a  little  creature 
whose  dark  eyes  and  languorous  vivacity  of  manner 
gave  her  an  exotic  charm. 

Mary  joined  them  presently,  and,  after  chatting 
awhile,  they  withdrew,  one  by  one,  as  though  to  their 
rooms. 

' '  They  're  going  to  play  fridge  with  that  chicken, ' ' 
said  Arthur  to  himself;  "and  I  think  I  'm  going  to 
sit  up  till  they  leave  off." 

The  four  were  in  Lady  Felicia's  sitting-room  now. 
The  maids  were  dismissed  for  the  night,  all  but 
Felicia's,  a  discreet  hand  of  middle  age  whom  noth- 
ing could  scare.  Then,  almost  without  a  word  wasted 
on  small  talk,  the  game  began.  The  luck  of  the  cut 
paired  Mary  with  the  hostess,  and  Twiggy  with 
Muriel,  for  the  first  game. 

"Penny  points?"  said  Felicia,  with  a  cold  smile 
to  her  partner.  ' '  You  're  no  novice  now. ' ' 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Mary  was  the  richer 

3°9 


The  Yellow  Van 

by  a  couple  of  pounds.  It  was  a  new  experience 
for  her,  the  winning  of  money  worth  the  count,  and 
it  had  a  fascination  of  its  own.  Her  father  had  been 
almost  her  only  antagonist  at  cards,  and  her  con- 
tests with  him  had  rarely  left  her  the  better  or  worse 
by  more  than  a  florin.  But  forty  shillings !  It  was 
like  a  beginning  of  income.  First  earnings  always 
mark  a  new  epoch  in  life. 

"Look  at  it!"  she  laughed. 

"Millionaire  soon,  at  this  rate,"  said  Muriel. 

Then  there  were  ups  and  downs ;  and  Polly  blun- 
dered, and  Di— for  they  became  all  nicknames  now 
—bit  her  lip,  and  "Fliss"  laughingly  said,  "Better 
luck  next  time,"  and  Twiggy,  whose  mother  owned 
mines  in  Bilbao,  alone  seemed  unaware  that  any- 
thing had  happened  either  way. 

Finally,  with  a  serious  change  in  the  luck,  poor 
Polly  lost  all  her  winnings  and  something  more  in  a 
single  deal. 

"I  think  I  '11  go  to  bed  now,"  she  said. 

"Try  a  change  of  partners  and  sixpenny  points," 
said  Lady  Felicia,  dryly.  '  *  It  may  change  the  luck. 
We  can  book  it,  you  know,  Polly.  Di  's  the  clearing- 
house ;  and  we  '11  settle  up  at  the  end. ' ' 

"Change  packs,  too,  while  we  're  about  it,"  said 
Muriel.  She  swept  the  two  in  play  to  the  floor, 
where  they  lay  like  so  much  wreckage  of  the  woods, 
and  drew  fresh  ones  from  a  neat  morocco  box 
stamped  with  her  monogram.  Whatever  else  was 
not  in  that  honorable  young  person's  luggage,  this 
was  never  left  behind.  It  was  an  object  of  even 
greater  anxiety  to  her  maid  than  the  jewel-case. 

310 


The  Yellow  Van 

Mary  mated  with  Ethel  Penstone  this  time,  Muriel 
as  dealer,  and— sixpenny  points. 

Ethel  shuffled.  It  was  a  pretty  sight.  Her  effort- 
less fingers  simply  shed  the  cards ;  and  it  was  really 
difficult  to  regard  these  as  the  devil's  playthings 
while  they  dropped  so  gracefully  from  the  direction 
of  the  sky.  The  very  rhythm  in  their  slight  rustle 
over  the  polished  surfaces  was  music  of  a  kind.  The 
bared  white  arm  was  quite  motionless ;  only  the  wrist 
moved,  and  that  almost  imperceptibly  but  for  a 
point  of  light  in  her  diamond  bracelet  that  rose  and 
fell  with  an  even  beat. 

They  examined  their  cards,  their  brows,  smooth  or 
troubled,  marking  degrees  of  proficiency  in  the  game. 
Mary  pursued  her  studies  with  a  frown. 

Muriel,  as  dealer,  had  the  right  to  decide  on 
the  trump  suit;  but  she  passed  it  on  to  Lady  Fe- 
licia, with  the  formula:  "Partner,  I  '11  leave  it  to 
you." 

Felicia  having  made  her  choice,  the  initiative  in 
raising  the  value  of  the  stakes  came  to  Ethel  as 
leader.  She  decided  to  double,  so  the  points  became 
shilling  ones  at  a  stroke.  Mary  checked  herself  in 
futile  dissent  with  a  gasp.  The  next  moment  she 
was  all  aglow  with  the  gambler's  everlasting  hope 
of  a  miracle. 

The  charm  of  this  delightful  game  is  that  the 
stake,  big  or  little,  has  the  illusory  nature  of  all 
matter  in  the  best  philosophic  systems.  It  is  a  single 
grain  of  sand  at  one  moment ;  at  another,  by  doubling 
and  redoubling  at  the  will  of  individual  players, 
it  becomes  a  whole  Sahara. 

3" 


The  Yellow  Van 

Ethel  led,  with  an  engaging  indifference  to  re- 
sults which  marked  her  proceedings  from  first  to  last. 
Felicia,  becoming  ex-officio  dummy  as  partner  of  the 
dealer,  exposed  her  hand  on  the  table  and  simply 
watched  the  game.  If  Mary  had  been  able  to  look 
up,  she  might  have  found  a  sort  of  terror  in  the 
steely  eyes.  The  watcher's  interests,  however,  were 
in  excellent  keeping,  for  dummy's  hand  was  played 
by  Muriel. 

It  was  a  scene  of  strange  contrasts,  the  old  and 
the  new.  The  players,  with  their  charm  of  age  and 
sex  and  evening  toilets,  sat  in  a  turret-chamber  with 
walls  a  yard  thick,  glowing  in  the  electric  light. 
The  middle  ages  had  blinked  and  shivered  here  in 
the  glare  of  pine  torches  stuck  in  the  wall,  in  the 
fitful  warmth  of  log  fires  with  the  open  casement  for 
their  chimney,  and  in  breezes  that  sometimes  inflated 
the  tapestry  like  a  balloon.  There  was  tapestry  still, 
but  it  was  only  part  of  a  decorative  scheme,  of  which 
innumerable  curios  in  the  precious  metals,  and  trifles 
of  every  imaginable  description  in  hardly  less  pre- 
cious fancy  leather,  with  bronzes,  water-colors,  sofas, 
rugs,  skins  of  the  chase,  and  a  heavy  Persian  carpet 
as  a  welcome  substitute  for  green  rushes,  formed  the 
details. 

But  the  strangest  contrast  was  in  the  young 
women  themselves.  The  stern  game  unsexed  them, 
and  they  became  as  hard  as  men  in  the  like  condi- 
tion. They  were  playing  for  money,— playing  for 
an  income,  in  the  case  of  Muriel,— and  they  took 
on  the  fierce,  relentless  manner  of  all  who  are  fight- 

312 


The  Yellow  Van 

ing  for  life.  The  environment  is  everything.  Put 
Milton's  Eve  at  the  pit  mouth,  to  which  so  many 
of  her  daughters  have  drifted,  and  softness  and 
sweet  attractive  grace  will  no  longer  be  her  distin- 
guishing charm.  Give  the  Dorothea  of  Cervantes 
a  tough  hand  to  play  for  her  bread  and  butter,  or  at 
any  rate  for  her  pins,  and  she  will  have  the  char- 
acteristics, if  not  exactly  the  manners,  of  the  betting- 
ring.  They  were  hard  and  curt  in  question  and  an- 
swer, with  scant  consideration  for  one  another 's  little 
weaknesses  and  little  ways.  Man,  the  idealizer,  might 
have  been  troubled  had  he  heard  and  seen.  Arthur 
Gooding  kept  the  chamber  under  observation  from 
his  window  in  a  rectangular  wing.  It  was  lucky 
that  nothing  more  reached  him  than  a  ray  of  light 
from  the  chink  of  a  curtain  imperfectly  closed. 


XXXV 


AST  one  o  'clock  and  a  cloudy  morn- 
ing, and  ten  minutes  for  refresh- 
ment. They  rose,  stretched  them- 
selves. Felicia  sent  for  her  dress- 
ing-gown, and  her  maid,  on  re- 
turning with  it,  noiselessly  mended 
the  fire,  so  as  to  cause  no  scandal  to  a  house  at  rest. 
She  then  put  cigarettes  on  the  table,  with  tea,  and 
waters  weak  and  strong— the  latter  in  the  form  of 
cognac  from  her  ladyship's  dressing-case.  They 
chatted  awhile,  chiefly  in  slang  and  nicknames— all 
but  Mary,  who  was  now  forty  pounds  to  the  bad. 
She  was  ready  to  run  for  it  in  sheer  terror,  but  she 
was  held  back  by  two  considerations— the  fear  of 
ridicule,  the  forlorn  hope  of  recovering  her  losses. 
Play  resumed,  but  with  no  change  of  partners,  the 
victors  having  generously  offered  the  others  their 
revenge.  The  house  is  fast  asleep,  save  perhaps 
for  the  distant  smoking-room,  where  Tom  Penni- 
quicke  and  his  cronies  still  take  up  their  wondrous 
tale  of  the  shortcomings  of  their  order.  His  subject 
to-night  is  the  scandal  of  the  card-table  in  great 
houses.  The  best  and  the  worst  of  all  talk  is  not 
so  much  what  is  said  as  what  is  assumed.  The  thing 
assumed  here  is  the  cancerous  corruption  of  a  section 
of  society— the  matron  ready  to  pay  in  kind  the 

3*4 


The  Yellow  Van 

gambling  debts  she  is  unable  to  pay  in  specie;  the 
girl  held  in  pawn  by  the  profligate  with  the  dread 
of  exposure. 

Mr.  Gooding,  no  longer  cheered,  or  rather  tor- 
mented, by  the  wandering  ray,  turns  in,  under  the 
delusive  belief  that  the  sitting  is  at  an  end.  He  is 
much  mistaken.  They  are  at  two-shilling  points  now. 
Mary  owes  sixty  pounds,  and  is  ready  for  anything, 
in  her  desperate  desire  to  recover  herself. 

Has  her  chance  come  ?  Muriel  deals  her  a  capital 
hand  in  hearts— king,  jack,  nine,  and  smaller  fry, 
with  equally  fair  cards  of  other  suits;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  declares  hearts  for  the  trump. 

Ethel  declines  to  double,  but  passes  it  on  to  her 
partner.  Now  is  the  time  for  the  manoeuver  by 
which  Mary  herself  has  been  so  heavily  hit. 

She  doubles. 

Muriel  redoubles  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  taking 
a  stroke  at  croquet. 

Mary  hopes  that  none  may  hear  her  heart  beat 
under  the  shock  of  surprise ;  but  it  is  all  or  nothing 
now.  She  redoubles. 

Then  they  close  for  the  shock  of  battle. 

Ethel,  by  way  of  great  response  to  her  partner's 
suggestion  of  great  strength  in  trumps,  leads  out  her 
single  heart. 

Alas!  the  strong  man  holdeth  only  on  a  well- 
known  condition.  Muriel,  by  the  sheer  luck  of  the 
deal,  has  a  still  better  hand  than  Mary,  and,  with 
ace,  queen,  ten,  and  other  trumps  at  command,  is 
able  promptly  to  put  the  lead  into  dummy's  hand. 


The  Yellow  Van 

It  is  the  Sedan  of  poor  Mary's  plan  of  campaign, 
not  ill  devised  as  it  was  on  the  ordinary  calculation 
of  chances. 

Dummy  leads  hearts,  and  Muriel  is  able  to  "sit 
over"  Mary  every  time. 

When  a  conflict  has  reached  this  stage,  the  humane 
spectator  withdraws.  No  one  cares  to  look  on  sheer 
butchery. 

Mary  makes  no  count  in  trumps,  and  finally  loses 
four  tricks,  counting  sixty-four  each,  on  a  score  al- 
ready working  out  at  something  over  a  thousand. 

Her  total  loss  now  stands  at  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds. 

The  game  is  over;  the  dawn  will  be  here  soon. 
They  rise  for  leave-taking,  but  not  so  hurriedly  as 
to  preclude  a  kiss  all  round. 

Gamblers  are  rarely  nice  to  look  at  after  an  all- 
night  sitting,  and  these  young  people  are  no  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  They  are  the  mere  wreckage 
of  the  stately  order  in  which  they  entered  the  arena 
yesterday  for  their  triumphs  of  the  drawing-room. 
Their  hair  is  a  tangle  of  shreds  of  coiffure;  their 
eyes  are  lusterless  and  rimmed  with  the  stains  of 
fatigue;  their  lips  are  dry.  Toilets  that  were  stud- 
ied compositions  in  the  carelessness  of  art  are  now  all 
astray  in  the  muddle  of  mere  untidiness.  Their  un- 
washed hands  have  sought  brow  and  cheek  in  the 
anguish  of  the  struggle,  and  left  their  mark. 

The  room  is  even  worse  than  its  occupants.  It  is 
the  room  that  awaits  the  housemaid  every  morning 
in  all  our  houses,  but  aggravated  in  the  grossness 

316 


The  Yellow  Van 

of  its  effects :  rugs,  table-covers,  all  awry,  soda-water 
bottles  littering  the  floor,  even  a  tumbler  or  two  with 
a  sediment  of  stale  drink,  stumps  of  cigarettes, 
cards  crunched  underfoot— in  a  word,  disgusting, 
and  more  than  ever  so  in  its  association  with  a  sex 
of  which  refinement  of  habit  is  the  essential  charm. 
Yet  the  innermost  misery  of  all  is  not  in  these  things, 
but  in  the  fact  that  girlhood  has,  for  the  first  time 
in  social  history,  been  smirched  with  these  revolt- 
ing associations.  Wicked  old  women  have  played 
for  gain  in  all  ages.  It  has  been  reserved  for  ours 
to  admit  young  ones  who  ought  to  be  innocent  to 
the  partnership  of  such  unholy  rites. 

"Settling  day  to-morrow,  dear,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  whispers  Lady  Felicia  in  Mary's  ear. 
"We  're  leaving  after  luncheon." 

It  says  much  for  Mary's  innocence  that  she  takes 
no  thought  of  her  trinkets  in  this  emergency,  and, 
in  short,  never  once  remembers  that  beyond  an  an- 
gry father  may  be  found  a  placid  "uncle"  at  need. 
It  is  but  a  stage,  no  doubt,  in  the  experience  of 
modern  girlhood,  but  it  is  most  refreshing  to  the 
beholder  while  it  lasts. 

So  she  gives  only  a  feeble  smile  in  response,  rushes 
to  her  room,  and,  with  the  most  shocking  terrors  of 
remorse,  throws  herself  on  her  bed  with  ' '  Gambler ! 
gambler !  gambler ! ' '  singing  in  her  ears. 

Arthur  Gooding  might  almost  as  well  have  made 
a  night  of  it,  too,  for  all  the  comfort  he  had  of  his 
couch.  He  rose  after  fitful  slumbers,  and  drew  his 
curtains  to  look  for  dawn.  It  was  almost  broad  day- 


The  Yellow  Van 

light.  A  cloaked  female  figure  paced  the  terrace 
below  at  a  rate  that  signified  either  a  cold  morning 
or  a  troubled  mind.  A  single  glance  at  the  figure 
showed  him  that  it  was  Mary,  so  he  decided  for 
the  troubled  mind.  He  rose,  and  was  soon  by  her 
side. 

The  poor  creature  was  in  torment.  She  had  lost 
what  with  her  means  and  opportunities  she  could 
never  recover.  Her  debt  of  honor  was  even  more 
binding  than  any  other,  but  how  was  it  to  be  paid 
at  short  notice?  Her  allowance,  reduced  as  it  had 
voluntarily  been  on  her  part  since  the  beginning 
of  her  father's  troubles,  would  never  suffice.  The 
thought  of  the  poor  old  man  was  maddening.  Was 
she,  his  mainstay  in  trouble,  to  be  a  second  Tom? 

But  she  was  brave  still,  and  she  returned  the 
young  man's  greeting  with  composure. 

"You  are  out  early,"  she  said.  The  hard,  dry 
voice,  with  all  the  youth  gone  out  of  it,  told  half  her 
tale. 

"Looking  for  an  appetite  for  breakfast.  You 
have  n  't  seen  anything  of  the  sort  about  ? ' ' 

"If  I  had,"  she  returned  in  the  same  cheerless 
tone,  "I  am  afraid  I  should  have  appropriated  it, 
for  I  came  first." 

' '  I  surrender  my  claims  in  any  case. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  all,"  she  said 
impatiently,  her  self-command  yielding  a  little,  in 
spite  of  her,  to  the  appalling  friction  of  the  nerves 
that  was  going  on  within. 

"I  daren't  ask  questions." 


The  Yellow  Van 

She  felt  that  she  was  betraying  herself,  and  tried 
to  change  her  tone. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  I  was  thinking  of  the 
strangest  thing  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  please  share  the  joke  with  a  friend." 

"It  isn't  a  joke,"  she  said,  with  a  quickness  that 
went  straight  to  his  heart.  "It  was  just  this :  I  won- 
der how  women  earn  money  when  they  happen  to 
want  to  do  it,  you  know." 

"Augusta  could  tell  you." 

' '  Oh,  but  I  mean  quick—  quick ! ' ' 

"They  don't  play  bridge  with  old  hands,"  re- 
turned the  youth,  who  saw  that  his  moment  had 
come.  "That  's  the  negative  of  the  process,  any- 
way. ' ' 

"Who  told  you?"  she  said,  almost  fiercely. 

"Yourself." 

' '  So  you  've  turned  against  me ! "  she  cried,  with 
trembling  lip  and  the  tears  welling  to  her  eyes. 

It  was  unreasonable,  but  only  the  more  flattering. 
He  thought  of  the  bank-notes  in  his  pocket-book, 
and  how  easily,  in  other  circumstances,  a  loan  might 
settle  the  whole  business. 

' '  How  I  wish  you  were  a  man ! "  he  said. 

"Oh,  say  anything  you  like,"  said  Mary.  "I  sup- 
pose I  deserve  it.  Tell  me  I  am  lowered  in  your 
good  opinion ;  tell  me  you  would  never  have  thought 
it  of  me.  But  remember  I  only  began  it  out  of 
bravado,  and,  at  any  rate,  I  'm  no  worse  than — ' ' 

"Than?" 

"Your  American  girls." 


The  Yellow  Van 

"I  assure  you,  they  are  not  half  as  brave  as  you 
think." 

"You  know  they  are." 

"If  some  of  them  could  hear  you,  they  might  say 
'Do  tell!'" 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  me." 

"I  wonder  if  you  do." 

"You  made  me  do  it." 

"I?" 

"What  you  said  about  the  hair-pins.  I  wasn't 
going  to  show  I  was  afraid  before— before  a  for- 
eigner. If  I  had  been  an  American  girl,  you  would 
have  said  it  was  all  right." 

"As  in  honor  bound." 

"You  know  they  do  just  as  they  like." 

"Perhaps.  You  see,  there  are  so  many  things  they 
don't  like." 

Silent  misery. 

' '  I  did  n  't  play  for  the  money,  whatever  you  think 
of  me.  I  began  just  to  show  I  was  n't  afraid.  Then 
I  went  on  to  get  back  what  I  'd  lost.  I  'd  do  that 
again,  if  I  could  get  another  chance." 

"That  's  the  spirit  and— there  's  the  breakfast- 
bell." 

Lady  Felicia  sought  him  out  at  the  meal,  after  her 
wont.  "I  hope  you  are  in  a  kinder  frame  of  mind 
this  morning." 

"At  peace  with  all  mankind." 

"And  that  includes  womankind?" 

' '  Unquestionably. ' ' 

"Then  don't  trifle;  there's  a  good  boy."     She 

320 


The  Yellow  Van 

had  the  share-list  in  her  hand,  and  followed  one 
of  the  entries  with  her  pencil  for  pointer.  ' '  They  've 
dropped  again." 

"Just  like  them.  It  's  an  uncertain  game.  Why 
not  stick  to  bridge,  Lady  Felicia?" 

She  laughed  uneasily,  and  looked  at  him,  still 
smiling,  but  with  a  world  of  mischief  in  her  eye. 

"She  's  told  you." 

"I've  found  out." 

"Telling  isn't  the  ethics  of  the  game." 

"Oh,  the  moment  you  bring  ethics  into  it,  where 
are  we?  All  sorts  of  questions  may  arise:  players 
of  approved  strength  against  weaklings ;  a  chaperon 
with  young  girls  in  her  charge;  perhaps  even  the 
obligations  of  guest  to  host  in  a  strange  house." 

"It  was  all  fair— the  luck  of  the  game." 

"Bridge  is  not  a  gamble,  Lady  Felicia;  if  it  were, 
that  would  only  make  the  case  worse." 

"It  is  like  the  great  game,  life  itself,"  she  said: 
' '  the  best  wins. ' ' 

"That  's  just  it:  the  best  head.  The  deal  is  only 
the  accident  of  birth.  With  two  such  players  as 
Lady  Felicia  and  Miss  Paryngton,  invocations  to 
Fortune  would  be  all  thrown  away. ' ' 

"Muriel  's  not  such  a  wonder,"  she  said;  "it  's 
only  that  Mary  's  such  a  child." 

"That  's  just  it  again— such  a  child." 

' '  It  will  be  a  lesson  for  her. ' ' 

"I  am  afraid  the  duke  would  hardly  like  to  think 
of  her  receiving  the  lesson  at  Allonby." 

"Is  it  a  threat?" 


•21 


321 


The  Yellow  Van 

"By  no  means;  only  a  warning." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Only  to  play  the  game,  Lady  Felicia." 

This  time  her  ladyship  cowered  beneath  his  gaze. 

He  saw  nothing  of  Mary,  or  of  any  of  them,  till 
luncheon,  and  then  the  whole  scene  had  changed. 
The  girl  was  radiant. 

"We  've  been  playing  all  the  morning,"  she  said, 
—"same  partners.  They  would  have  me  in,— 
wasn't  it  nice  of  them?— and  I  've  won  it  all  back 
but  twenty  pounds." 

"I  should  stop  there,"  said  the  youth,  "and  put 
up  my  votive  tablet  at  once." 

"Only  too  happy,"  she  said.  "But  you  were 
wrong.  I  told  you  it  was  all  luck.  I  seemed  to  win 
hand  over  hand.  Even  Muriel  was  stupid;  and  I 
never  saw  Felicia  play  so  badly.  Will  you  own  you 
were  all  wrong,  and  make  it  up?" 

"I  '11  own  anything,  now  that  you  're  all  right," 
he  said. 

Felicia  winged  a  rankling  shaft  as  she  took  her 
leave.  "Lucky  Mary,  with  a  friend  who  threatens 
to  tell ! ' '  she  whispered  with  the  parting  kiss. 

They  were  still  at  the  hall  door  when  a  groom 
came  in  sight.  He  was  from  Liddicot,  and  the  bearer 
of  a  scrawl  from  her  father: 

"For  God's  sake,  Polly,  come  home  at  once!" 

"What  is  it?"  she  faltered. 

"News  from  Mr.  Tom,  miss.  But  don't  you  take 
on;  he  's  only  wounded." 

322 


The  Yellow  Van 

It  was  the  last  straw.  With  the  strangest  little 
upward  look  and  smile,  as  of  deprecation  of  fresh 
trouble,  she  fainted. 

ANOTHER  and  a  far  more  dreadful  message  of  doom 
was  to  come  next  day  to  Allonby,  to  all  England,  and 
to  all  the  Britains.  The  last  of  the  Points  were 
leaving  the  castle,  still  on  their  endless  round  of 
pleasure,  when  even  they  were  startled  by  the  thun- 
derclap of  the  Queen's  death.  They  seemed  to  fall 
apart  from  one  another  under  the  shock,  and  to  be 
converted  in  a  moment  from  a  band  of  revelers  in 
full  cry  into  a  flying  crowd  of  phantoms  scattering 
before  the  presence  of  a  great  reality.  The  flag  fell 
half-mast  at  the  castle,  and  with  sorrow  in  the  house- 
hold, sorrow  in  the  state,  the  great  bell  tolled  the 
end  of  an  epoch.  For  such  it  was,  whatever  else  was 
to  come  for  the  Queen's  realm  in  the  providence  of 
God. 


323 


XXXVI 


ONGr  after  her  recovery  of  con- 
sciousness, Mary  remained  in  a 
state  of  partial  collapse.  Her  trials 
had  increased  her  tenderness  for 
both  her  kin,  and  her  remorse  for 
her  conduct  to  her  father.  The 
escapade  at  the  card-table  had  now  adjusted  itself 
to  conscience  as  a  wanton  betrayal  of  the  old  man. 
She  was  going  to  bring  down  his  gray  hairs  in  sor- 
row by  increasing  his  embarrassments.  In  this  state, 
of  course,  she  was  ready  to  believe  the  worst  against 
herself.  She  was  the  wicked  child.  Poor  Tom  could 
not  help  his  extravagance :  it  was  the  Service.  But 
what  excuse  had  she?  Alas!  for  an  ancient  house 
that  must  find  its  doom  in  the  follies  of  a  girl. 

So  what  fitter  than  that  the  worst  should  fall  on 
her  as  a  punishment?  It  was  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence: the  very  date  of  her  brother's  wound  was 
the  very  one  on  which  she  had  first  sat  down  to  the 
detested  game.  On  the  night  of  her  vigil  he  was 
perhaps  groaning  out  his  life  on  the  veldt.  For  Tom 
was  going  to  die,  and  to  be  buried,  far  from  all  of 
them,  in  a  foreign  grave.  It  was  horrible  to  think 
that  at  this  very  moment  he  might  be  lying  under 
the  turf  of  a  Boer  farm,  like  a  dead  horse.  Brought 
up  as  she  had  been,  Mary  naturally  cherished  the 

324 


The  Yellow  Van 

proprieties  of  consecrated  ground,  British  soil,  and 
the  family  sepulchre. 

In  all  this  she  had  taken  Mr.  Gooding  into  her 
confidence.  He  was  her  strong  man  and  keeper,  and 
she  had  gradually  learned  to  look  to  him  from  the 
men  of  her  house.  The  sense  of  her  debt  to  him  for 
deliverance  from  her  late  trouble  had  come  upon 
her  in  a  flash  as  the  hidden  meaning  of  Lady  Felicia's 
parting  sneer:  "Luck  Mary,  with  a  friend  who 
threatens  to  tell !"— what  could  it  be  but  that  he  had 
forced  them  to  give  her  another  chance.  And  her 
fatuous  offer  of  pardon,  if  he  would  confess  himself 
in  the  wrong— she  could  have  humbled  herself  with 
stripes. 

He  knew  all  that  was  passing  in  her  mind,  and  was 
as  "innocent"  as  ever  when  her  confidences  were 
offered  once  more.  He  saw  that  she  was  on  the 
brink  of  some  desperate  resolution— perhaps  a 
journey  to  South  Africa  to  find  Tom,  and  to  bring 
him  back,  dead  or  alive.  And  when  he  forestalled 
it  by  quietly  announcing  that  business  might  take 
him  to  that  part  of  the  world,  and  that,  in  fact,  he 
was  starting  next  day,  she  could  have  knelt  and 
kissed  his  hand.  Not  a  single  pledge  was  asked  or 
offered  as  to  his  interest  in  the  fate  of  the  wounded 
man,  but  the  words  seemed  to  give  her  troubled 
spirit  a  foretaste  of  the  great  peace.  She  did  not 
even  thank  him,  while  he  resolutely  talked  gold- 
mines until  he  bade  her  and  the  squire  good-by. 
She  returned  his  pressure  of  the  hand,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

325 


The  Yellow  Van 

Augusta  was  to  have  accompanied  him  to  town  on 
her  own  quest  for  the  Herions,  but  she  was  still 
detained  by  the  disarray  of  all  the  family  plans.  She 
chafed  in  her  bondage  of  letters  to  write,  orders  to 
countermand,  all  the  endless  detail  of  the  life  of 
rank.  The  family  was  like  a  great  ship,  hard  to 
start  in  any  new  course,  but  just  as  hard  to  stop 
when  once  under  way.  Custom  and  usage  decreed 
three  weeks  longer  in  the  country ;  and  the  mistress 
of  Allonby  could  only  contrive  to  get  a  week  to  the 
good  by  finally  breaking  her  way  out  of  a  coil  of  red 
tape.  One  morning,  when  her  bonds  had  become  in- 
tolerable, she  brushed  all  her  letters  aside  unopened, 
ordered  her  carriage  for  the  next  train,  and  by  the 
afternoon  was  in  town,  with  the  duke  to  follow  as 
soon  as  his  own  servants  gave  him  leave. 

Her  first  experience  was  disheartening.  It  was  all 
failure,  and  it  humbled  her  into  a  sort  of  charity  for 
the  lawyers  and  the  detectives.  The  terrible  ob- 
scurity of  the  outcasts  was  the  stumbling-block.  One 
can  hardly  conceive  the  anonymity  of  London  pov- 
erty. It  is  mere  nothingness;  the  absolute  of  the 
unconsidered  trifle.  Often  it  still  labors  toward  the 
patronymic  from  the  mere  nickname,  and  knows  a 
man  only  as  "Squinteye,"  as  one  of  his  betters  might 
have  been  known  centuries  ago  as  ' '  Longshanks. " 
Most  of  the  persons  whose  addresses  Mr.  Gooding 
had  so  carefully  noted  on  his  quest  were  now  them- 
selves on  a  lost  trail — atoms  floating  in  the  void. 
One  was  in  Hades. 

But   a   single   thing   was    unchanged— the   slum 

326 


The  Yellow  Van 

owned  by  the  Duke  of  Allonby.  Augusta  had  at 
length  heard  of  that  grim  incident  of  her  brother's 
earlier  journey.  She  went  to  see  the  place  now, 
partly  for  her  immediate  purpose,  partly  to  peep 
into  the  Bluebeard's  chamber  of  the  ducal  estate. 
There  it  was— even  to  the  blood  in  its  dismal  im- 
plications. Oh !  And  this  was  the  hotbed  of  human 
remains  wherefrom,  in  part,  the  vigor  of  a  noble 
house  derived  its  sap.  It  was  not  exactly  the  duke's 
fault;  so  much  she  had  learned  in  answer  to  her 
eager  inquiries.  The  houses  were  leased;  they  had 
been  misused  by  the  tenants;  they  were  to  be  torn 
down  and  rebuilt  as  soon  as  opportunity  served. 
Yet  nothing  could  altogether  remove  the  stain  of 
their  associations  from  the  greatness  of  Allonby. 

So  passed  weeks  in  idle  and,  at  times,  almost  aim- 
less activities  without  result.  Sometimes  Augusta 
turned  from  her  search  to  her  charities,  in  the  en- 
deavor to  hearten  herself  up  with  the  thought  that 
she  was  still  of  some  use  in  the  world.  One  day  she 
went  down  to  the  London  Hospital,  that  vast  lazar- 
house  of  the  East  End,  and  wandered  from  her  ward 
there  to  the  others,  through  what  seemed  to  be  miles 
of  pain,  this  time,  thank  Heaven,  not  unrelieved. 
It  lay  quiet,  for  the  most  part,  gazing  upward  in 
mute  resignation,  perhaps  in  hope  of  what  lay  be- 
yond to  the  farthest  cry.  Here,  if  anywhere,  should 
there  be  painted  ceilings,  not  in  the  halls  of  hu- 
manity on  the  perpendicular.  Hardly  a  moan  broke 
the  stillness,  but  lack-lustre  eyes  attested  the  weari- 
ness of  the  prospect  and  the  longing  for  change. 

327 


The  Yellow  Van 

One  case  was  especially  touching  in  its  mute  resig- 
nation. An  emaciated  man,  lying  like  a  mummy  in 
his  bandages,  gazed  steadily  upward  with  the  others. 
The  whole  attitude  had  a  sort  of  rigidity  of  death 
about  it,  even  to  the  fixity  of  the  stare.  The  fear 
that  he  might  actually  have  passed  away  made  her 
pause  to  look  at  him.  And,  as  she  looked,  there  came 
a  great  awe  upon  her,  for  she  knew  at  once  that  what 
she  saw  was  what  she  had  so  long  sought.  That 
certainty  came  in  a  way  she  could  not  define— by  a 
something  in  the  expression  that  we  carry  with  us, 
almost  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave— perhaps  from 
the  cradle  itself,  to  one  beholder. 

Yet  still  she  lingered  dubiously  to  disentangle  the 
image  from  a  sort  of  debris  of  youth  and  premature 
age.  The  old  fire  was  in  the  upturned  eyes,  ever 
only  less  bright  than  those  of  the  king  of  his  order, 
the  peasant  Burns.  But  the  hair  was  now  gray,  and 
it  hung  in  wisps  instead  of  the  old  swaths.  The 
cheek  had  the  yellow  unbleached  whiteness  of  the 
bedclothes,  and  the  whole  face  was  modeled  mainly 
in  its  lines  of  bone. 

"George— George  Herion— don't  you  know  me?" 

He  gave  a  convulsive  start,  turned  his  head  in  a 
fierce,  resentful  stare,  then  tried  to  swing  head  and 
body  away  from  her,  with  the  help  of  one  disen- 
gaged arm. 

The  whole  ward  was  now  in  movement  with  the 
sense  of  something  coming  to  pass. 

A  nurse  ran  up,  as  though  to  chide  her  patient, 
but  forbore  when  she  saw  the  great  lady  holding  his 

328 


The  Yellow  Van 

hand.  Still,  she  shook  her  head,  and  placed  a  finger 
to  her  lips. 

Augusta  mastered  herself  with  an  effort,  but  a 
gleam  of  triumph  blended  with  the  pity  of  her  eyes. 
"When  may  I  come  to  talk  to  him?"  she  said. 

"To-morrow,  I  hope,  your  Grace.  At  any  rate, 
we  '11  do  the  best  we  can.  Accident,  and  a  bad  case ; 
we  've  had  to  move  him  like  so  much  biscuit  china 
for  weeks  and  weeks. ' ' 

Found  at  last!  Yet  still  she  dared  not  make 
sure  of  it  without  reading  his  bed-card— "George 
Herion. ' '  So  the  long,  long  search  was  at  an  end. 

There  was  another  surprise  for  her  when  she 
reached  home— a  telegram  from  Southampton: 

"Landed  Tom  Liddicot  this  morning.  Take  him 
home  to-morrow.  Voyage  done  wonders ;  almost  out 
of  danger  now.  ARTHUR." 

A  fruitful  day  at  last. 


329 


XXXVII 

HEY  took  Tom  down  to  Liddicot, 
and  Mr.  Gooding  never  left  him 
till  he  had  seen  him  safely  over 
the  moat.  The  invalid  could  walk 
with  assistance,  and  he  was  evi- 
dently on  the  mend.  The  flesh- 
tones  wanted  freshening  where  the  tan  had  yielded 
to  the  pale  underlying  tint  that  seems  to  be  nature 's 
first  start  with  us  all. 

Father  and  daughter  were  both  waiting,  as  on  the 
day  of  Augusta's  visit;  but  Mr.  Gooding  was  for 
hurrying  away  on  further  " business"  when  he  had 
delivered  up  his  charge.  The  old  man  would  not  have 
it  so  until  he  had  made  some  attempt  to  express  his 
thanks.  He  was  naturally  able  to  say  rather  less 
than  usual,  and,  in  consequence,  began  to  meditate 
an  invitation  to  dinner  as  a  sort  of  discharge  in  full 
of  all  demands.  A  word  from  Mary  put  an  end  to 
that. 

As  for  her,  feeling  that  she  could  say  nothing,  she 
wisely  said  it,  and,  with  a  downcast  look  that  derived 
its  sole  significance  from  the  wit  of  the  interpreter, 
suffered  the  young  fellow  to  take  his  leave. 

For  the  story  of  how  the  hero  was  found  they  had 
to  rely  on  his  soldier-servant,  who  came  home  with 

33° 


The  Yellow  Van 

him,  and  who  had  joined  the  service  as  a  lad  from 
the  estate.  By  the  general  consent  of  the  servants' 
hall  he  was  a  smart  fellow,  much  improved  in  speech 
and  manners  by  travel,  and  particularly  by  garrison 
duties  in  town.  The  girls  listened  to  his  tale  for 
the  teller's  sake;  and  Mary's  maid  brought  it  to  the 
dressing-room,  in  due  course,  whence  her  mistress 
took  it  to  the  study  fire. 

The  wounded  man,  though  perfectly  able  to  talk, 
and  rapidly  recovering,  had  the  same  constitutional 
incapacity  for  narrative  as  his  sire.  It  was  not  pre- 
cisely modesty;  it  was  rather  a  horror  of  the  se- 
quence of  ideas,  as  a  form  of  "bookiness"  unworthy 
of  a  sportsman.  Indeed,  Tom  himself  referred  Mary 
to  his  dependent,  as  to  a  person  who  had  no  un- 
easiness on  this  point.  "Don't  bother,  Polly;  there  's 
a  dear.  Tell  Parker  to  make  Sam  turn  on  the  tap." 

And  Sam  did  full  justice  to  his  subject ;  or,  where 
he  failed,  the  maid  in  reporting  him  supplied  the 
finishing  touches. 

"What  I  can  never  get  over,"  he  said  to  his 
cronies,  "is  that  these  Boer  chaps  are  just  the  same 
as  you  or  me:  farmin'  fellows,  most  of  'em,  livin' 
on  the  land,  an'  by  it,  too,  though  they  get  the  pull 
on  us  with  their  blacks.  Stock-raisin'  most  of  the 
time:  the  cattle  darkenin'  the  land  in  the  great 
drives.  And,  you  might  n  't  think  it,  but  all  sorts  of 
things  in  their  houses— photy graphs,  Bibles,  an' 
what  not,  just  as  it  might  be  'ere. 

"What  a  rummy  sort  o'  thing  war  is !  Travel  thou- 
sands o'  miles  to  find  you  've  got  a  quarrel  with 

331 


The  Yellow  Van 

somebody  that  's  just  such  another  as  yourself. 
Great  stretches  o'  salt  sea,  an'  dark  night,  an'  winds 
howlin'  all  around;  an'  there  you  are  push,  push, 
pushin'  on  to  get  at  the  man  you  was  fated  to  kill 
from  your  cradle.  Goodness!  it  seems  like  havin' 
a  row  with  the  next  world.  But  there  you  find  the 
quarrel  waitin'  for  you,  manner  o'  speakin',  when 
you  land.  The  flags  and  the  mottoes  and  the  music 
is  all  the  news  you  get  of  it  at  first,  and  it  takes  many 
a  mile  of  footin',  heel  an'  toe,  before  you  see  an 
enemy's  face.  And  not  that  all  at  once,  mind  you. 
At  first  all  you  have  to  put  up  with,  for  a  long  time, 
is  little  specks,  nigh  a  mile  off;  but  you  know  they 
want  to  kill  you,  and  you  got  to  kill  them.  Pop! 
pop!  and  p'r'aps  no  one  much  the  worse  for  it,  but 
it  's  rummy  all  the  same.  You  feel  you  could  go 
over  and  ask  'em  what  's  the  trouble,  an'  settle  it 
there  an'  then. 

"Close  quarters  is  the  rummiest  of  all.  Now  you 
see  the  eyes  o '  your  man,  an '  the  color  in  his  cheeks ; 
an'  you  got  to  do  him,  or  he  '11  do  you.  Of  course, 
if  he  's  comin'  straight  for  you,  you  put  off  thinkin' 
about  it  till  you  've  laid  him  out.  But  if  you  're 
dodging  about,  dismounted,  p'r'aps,  an'  sparrin'  for 
an  openin',  for  the  life  o'  you,  you  can  hardly  help 
singin'  out,  'Hold  on!' 

"That  sort  o'  thing  came  to  me  one  day.  I  was 
scoutin',  advance  line,  over  rough  country;  great 
big  stones  (copies,  they  call  'em  there),  when  from 
behind  one  of  'em  up  jumps  a  feller  not  ten  yards 
off.  It  was  such  a  surprise  for  both  of  us  that  we 

332 


The  Yellow  Van 

clean  forgot  to  shoot.  We  just  stared  each  other 
straight  in  the  face— almost  rude,  as  they  used  to 

call  it  when  I  was  a  kid.  By sir !  we  knew  what 

was  in  each  other's  mind,  without  a  word.  We  'd 
got  to  kill  at  short  notice,  an'  we  couldn't  begin 
for  shame. 

"I  dropped  mine;  his  never  stirred  from  the  stone 
where  it  was  restin'.  'It  's  a  fine  day,'  says  he,  in 
English,  'fur  the  time  o'  year.' 

' '  After  that,  believe  me,  I  could  n  't  have  let  fly 
at  him  if  he  'd  asked  me  to.  All  I  could  manage  was : 
'Same  to  you,  rebel;  same  to  you.  How  are  you 
gettin'  on?' 

"  'Pretty  fair,'  he  said,  'but  I  could  do  with  a  bit 
o'  fresh  meat.  An'  you  don't  happen  to  have  such 
a  thing  as  a  pipe-light?' 

"  'Happy  to  oblige';  an'  I  tossed  him  a  box  o' 
blazers.  'Take  half,  an'  kindly  return  balance,  if 
you  please.' 

"  'How  d'  you  pick  up  a  livin, '  said  the  rebel, 
'when  you  ain't  at  this  work?' 

"  'Hosses.' 

"  'Just  my  line.  'Scuse  me,  but  you  're  a  trifle 
too  far  ahead  of  your  lot ;  we  're  workin '  round  your 
flank.' 

"Just  then  the  bugle  sounded  for  us  to  fall  back. 

"  'Don't  hurry,'  he  said,  'only  keep  on  your 
hands  an'  knees.  Creep  round  this  way,  an'  I  '11 
stand  a  drink. ' 

"Awful  stuff  it  was;  yet,  takin'  one  thing  with 
another,  toothsome,  too. 

333 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  'I  'm  a  Burghersdorp  man,'  says  my  mate— for 
that  's  what  it  had  come  to  by  this  time.  'If  you 
happen  to  be  round  that  way  when  this  is  over,  look 
me  up,  an'  it  '11  be  your  turn  to  stand  treat.  If  I 
ain't  in,  don't  bother.  See  you  p'r'aps  in  the  next 
world.  Anyway,  pass  a  drop  o'  water  to  one  of  our 
wounded,  an'  I  '11  cry  quits  wherever  I  may  be.' 

' '  '  Give  us  your  fist. '  An '  we  gripped  behind  the 
stone.  Take  my  oath,  it  was  just  like  sayin'  prayers, 
kneelin'  an'  all. 

"Then  the  bugle  sung  out  again,  an'  we  crept 
back;  an'  that  was  the  last  of  him. 

"Rummy  like,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it!  But 
that  's  life,  if  it  ain't  exactly  war.  An'  it  was  war 
again  a  moment  after,  for  I  passed  one  or  two  stiff 
uns  on  the  way  to  camp. 

"Less  than  a  week  after  that  Mr.  Tom  was  bowled 
over.  A  good  feller,  but  a  babby  at  this  sort  o' 
game.  Cavalry  to  cover  advance,  and  he  trotted 
them  right  into  a  trap  you  might  have  seen  a  mile 
off.  Trotted  up  to  it,  an'  trotted  into  it,  sir;  and 
when  we  got  nicely  in  the  middle,  they  let  fly  from 
three  sides  an '  downed  him  an '  fifteen  others.  Lord ! 
how  our  fellers  swore  at  him  till  we  got  'em  into 
hospital— them  as  was  able  to  return  thanks.  Eng- 
lish gentry  are  all  right :  you  could  n  't  get  killed 
in  better  company.  That  's  the  use  of  old  families, 
I  fancy,  in  a  country  like  ours— figureheads.  The 
city  people  are  sharp  enough;  an'  see  how  they 
work  'em  in— boards  an '  such  like :  others  to  do  the 
schemin'  work. 

334 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  'I  'm  done,  Sam,'  he  said  to  me.  An',  sure 
enough,  it  looked  a  case.  Mauser  bullet  right  through 
the  stomach,  front  to  back.  Well,  the  moment  he  got 
it  he  begins  to  be  a  sportsman  again,  artful  as  they 
make  'em,  workin'  with  his  head-piece  to  save  his 
men.  The  way  he  got  that  troop  under  cover  was  a 
caution,  an'  the  hole  in  him  all  the  time,  mind. 
Stuck  to  it  till  he  fainted;  and  then  the  lot  of  us 
did  a  bunk  to  the  rear,  wounded  an'  all.  They 
pulled  him  about  a  bit  in  the  ambulance,  an'  he 
fainted  again  an'  again.  But  as  soon  as  he  came 
to  for  good,  he  went  on  workin'  with  his  head-piece, 
an'  saved  'imself,  spite  o'  the  doctors. 

"How  did  he  do  it?  Livin'  on  his  fat.  You 
don't  understand?  How  should  you?  Well,  this 
way: 

"  'I  'm  hit  through  the  intestines,'  thinks  he— 
'  a  clean  wound.  If  I  don 't  give  my  inside  any  work 
to  do  for  a  week,  the  wound  may  heal  of  itself.' 

' '  Lord,  he  can  be  downy  when  he  takes  the  trouble. 
So  he  lies  there,  still  's  a  mouse,  six  mortal  days  an' 
nights  without  bite  or  sup.  Hardly  a  word  all  the 
time,  even  to  me,  but  gives  his  orders  with  his  eyes. 
I  wetted  his  lips  now  an'  then  with  brandy  an' 
water;  that  was  all.  He  reckoned  he  'd  got  fat 
enough  to  keep  him  without  nourishment,  an'  he 
was  right.  In  a  manner  o'  speakin',  his  fat  was  his 
good  works,  an'  he  fell  back  on  'em.  By  the  time 
he  could  n  't  hold  out  longer,  the  wound  was  healed. 
Then  the  young  American  gent  comes  with  all  the 
delicacies  o'  the  season  in  a  hand-bag,  and  he  begins 

335 


The  Yellow  Van 

to  pick  a  bit.  The  sea-breezes  do  the  rest,  an'— here 
we  are.  Come  to  think  of  it,  that  's  a  sort  of  idea 
as  might  do  for  other  things  in  life,  if  a  chap  could 
work  it  out.  Save  all  the  fat  you  can,  an'  live  on  it 
when  the  pinch  comes."  He  was  evidently  wrestling 
with  the  conception  that  even  virtue  is  only  another 
kind  of  fat ;  but  the  expression  of  it  was  beyond  his 
powers. 

The  squire 's  heart  melted  toward  the  man  who  had 
helped  to  save  his  son.  He  had  hitherto  had  his  sus- 
picions of  Arthur  Gooding,  and  naturally,  for  the 
latter  was  still  something  "un-English,"  all  said 
and  done. 

He  was  quite  frank  about  it.  "We  've  only  been 
acquaintance  up  to  this  time,  sir,"  he  said;  "my 
fault.  I  wish  we  may  be  friends.  You  're  a  man. ' ' 

"We  have  to  begin  that  as  early  as  we  can,"  said 
Mr.  Gooding,  "else  we  get  left." 

"I  should  like  to  know  more  of  you,  sir,"  added 
the  squire,  in  a  penitential  tone. 

"It  's  soon  told.  We  're  older  acquaintances,  Sir 
Henry,  if  not  older  friends,  than  you  think.  My 
grandfather  hoed  turnips  on  one  of  your  father's 
farms." 

"Gooding?  Gooding ?"  said  the  old  man.  "Can't 
say  I  remember—  What,  Jack  Gooding,  big  Jack, 
that  used  to— oh,  Lord!" 

"No  doubt.  It  was  news  to  all  of  us  till  the  other 
day,  when  my  uncle  over  yonder  turned  up  a  bundle 
of  old  letters." 

' '  Big  Jack  Gooding, ' '  repeated  the  squire.    ' '  Well, 

336 


The  Yellow  Van 

well!  I  don't  remember  his  going  away,— I  was  at 
Cambridge,  then,— but  I  perfectly  well  remember 
missing  him. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  it  's  all  down  in  the  letters.  There  was 
no  chance  for  him  here,  so  he  left  to  the  tune  of  '  To 
the  West,'— the  hymn,  I  should  like  to  call  it,  that 
peopled  America.  He  sought  his  chance  of  a  larger 
life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  and  found 
all  three.  Here  they  keep  the  openings  so  much  in 
the  family,  and  he  couldn't  wait.  If  he  'd  stayed 
he  might  have  been  Skett  at  the  best ;  at  the  worst- 
perhaps  George  Herion." 

The  squire  looked  argumentative,  but  he  kept  his 
thoughts  to  himself. 

"He  made  a  fresh  start  in  a  village  on  our  side. 
But  there  are  villages  and  villages ;  and  that  one  was 
panting  to  make  itself  a  township,  and  found  no- 
body to  say  nay.  Then  it  took  a  fancy  to  be  a  city, 
and  still  there  was  no  denial ;  and  a  city  it  is  to  this 
day.  My  grandfather  owned  half  of  it;  I  don't  say 
that  's  exactly  the  highest  ideal  of  humanity,  but 
while  it  's  a  mere  scramble,  why  not  he  as  well  as  the 
next  man?  There  was  none  to  bar  him  because  of 
his  birth  or  his  breeding,  or  to  set  up  the  claim  of 
a  scutcheon  against  the  claim  of  native  wit.  Besides, 
it  all  righted  itself  pretty  soon.  My  father  lost 
it  in  the  virtuous  attempt  to  corral  the  other  half; 
and  so  we  all  had  to  begin  again.  It  's  capital 
exercise;  and  I  'm  going  home  by  to-morrow's 
boat  for  my  share.  That  's  what  I  came  to 
say." 

22  337 


The  Yellow  Van 

' '  Give  me  your  hand, ' '  said  the  squire.  ' '  We  seem 
to  have  got  it  all  wrong  here  somehow." 

"Make  it  a  leave-taking,  sir,  for  the  present,  and 
give  my  respectful  compliments  to  Miss  Mary.  I 
could  not  trust  myself  to  thank  either  of  you  in  set 
terms  for  all  the  hospitality  and  all  the  kindness  I 
have  found  at  Liddicot." 


338 


XXXVIII 


UGUSTA  went  early  to  the  hos- 
pital, on  the  day  after  she  had 
found  George. 

She  had  at  first  to  sue  for  his 
story  as  for  a  favor.  His  sullen 
wrath  against  Allonby  Castle  and 
all  its  works  and  workers  knew  no  distinction  of  per- 
sons. He  had  been  hit  from  its  towers:  what  mat- 
tered the  hand  or  the  loophole.  Allonby  had  driven 
him  out,  if  London  had  laid  him  low.  1  he  agent  was 
but  another  name  for  the  duke;  the  duke,  for  the 
duchess ;  and  he  hated  them  all.  It  was  a  last  touch 
of  pride  and  defiance  that  bound  him  to  life. 

For  Augusta  this  was  all  so  entirely  natural  that 
she  had  no  thought  of  anger  or  rebuke.  It  was  his 
cry  for  vengeance;  he  wanted  her  to  feel  that  she 
had  come  too  late  to  save  the  broken  thing  at  her 
feet.  And  vengeance  was  sensation,  and  sensation 
was  life. 

"I  'm  done,  lady,"  he  said  sullenly.    "We  '11  get 
it  over  soon  's  may  be,  if  you  doan'  mind." 
"How  did  it  happen,  Herion?" 
"Gentlefolks— ask  them." 

"Poor  fellow!  Give  me  a  better  answer  if  you 
can— for  the  sake  of  others." 


339 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Sake  of  others!  If  she  was  'ere,  she  wouldn't 
want  to  see  the  color  of  your  eyes.  What  's  done  's 
done;  why  make  more  'eartbreaks  for  'er  'n'  me." 

"But  if  only  you  had  written!" 

It  seemed  to  rouse  him  to  fury.  ' '  What  was  there 
to  write?  That  a  man  turned  out  of  a  village  at 
short  notice  comes  to  town  to  starve?  Who  give  all 
of  us  to  all  of  you?  I  only  wanted  to  stand  on  my 
own  feet,  and  be  a  man.  Slocum's  mine  much  as 
yours.  We  been  there  long  as  anybody,  I  dare  say,  if 
we  ain't  got  writin's  to  show  for  it— longer  than 
some. ' ' 

"How  did  it  happen,  Herion?" 

"The  nuss  knows,"  he  muttered.  "I  got  no 
stomach  for  the  tale." 

' '  I  want  you  to  tell  me. ' ' 

"Fell  down  the  'old  of  a  ship— so  Allonby's  got 
the  laugh,  after  all." 

"Allonby  won't  get  much  of  a  laugh  out  of  it, 
Herion.  But  never  mind  that;  all  your  stubborn- 
ness and  all  your  pride  won't  prevent  me  from  do- 
ing something  to  help  you." 

"I  won't  'ave  your  'elp,  duchess.  As  for  'er,  I 
tell  you,  she  wouldn't— ah,  God  forgive  me!  an' 
she  's  wearin'  her  fingers  to  the  bone  to  keep  her 
babby  alive. ' '  The  hot  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks. 
"Now  you  're  the  winner;  my  sperrit  's  broke." 

A  sickening  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  awful 
change.  The  thought  of  Rose  had  brought  on  him 
a  full  sense  of  the  terror  of  the  forces  arrayed  against 
the  "likes  of  him"— Allonby,  and  beyond  that, 

34° 


The  Yellow  Van 

Heaven's  throne  and  Heaven's  judgments— the 
Heaven  of  Mr.  Raif !  It  was  a  reversion  to  the  fears 
of  infancy.  He  was  the  peasant  child  again,  the 
peasant  Sunday  scholar,  with  submission  at  the  very 
heart  of  him,  and  the  sense  of  fate. 

"Tell  me  all.  And  will  you  try  to  believe  you  are 
telling  it  to  a  friend?"  She  took  the  lean  and 
clammy  hand. 

He  was  quite  humble  now.  "Anything  you  like; 
only  get  it  over  soon  's  you  can,  if  you  're  a  merciful 
woman. ' ' 

"I  'd  ha'  put  by  something,"  he  added  apologet- 
ically, "an'  made  a  start,  if  the  dock  work  had 
lasted.  When  it  stopped  all  of  a  sudden,  I  was 
broke." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  the  babby.  Come  to  think  of  it,  a  laborin' 
man  's  no  bezness  with  anything  o'  that  sort,  if  he 
ain't  in  full  work.  I  've  beared  Mester  Raif  say  so 
many  a  time;  an'  it  's  reet." 

"Never  mind  Mr.  Raif." 

"It  's  the  sties  some  of  'em  'ave  to  get  born  in, 
up  in  the  big  towns;  an'  'unted  from  sty  to  sty  to 
that.  It  breaks  the  'eart  of  a  man,  aye,  an'  the  'eart 
of  a  woman,  what  's  stronger  still. 

"But  I  wasn't  done  yet,  mind.  You  mustn't 
think,  duchess,  I  was  done  so  easy  's  that.  I  tramped 
the  county  for  seven  weeks,  an'  I  got  a  bit  o'  'ar- 
vestin',  an'  kept  things  goin',  and  brought  back 
three  pound  knotted  in  my  'ankercher  to  live  on 
while  I  waited  for  another  chance  at  the  docks. 

341 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Then  the  devil  got  the  pull  on  me  again.  Three 
thick  uns,  all  in  gold,  '11  go  a  long  way,  but  they 
won't  last  forever.  When  they  got  low,  I  used  to  go 
an'  'ear  the  talkin'  Sundays  at  Mile  End  Waste." 

"The  outdoor  preaching?" 

"Not  much  o'  that,"  he  said,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"Anarshists— that  's  what  they  call  theirselves.  It 
make  me  feel  I  'd  rather  die  than  go  back  to  Allonby. 
Put  yourself  in  my  place:  touch  your  'at  to  the 
gentry,  touch  it  to  the  parson.  Always  under  some- 
body's  eye:  church,  Sundays,  under  one  overseer, 
'oliday  sports  under  another.  Coals  and  blankits 
if  you  behave  yourself.  Dyin'  even  under  the  eye  o' 
your  betters.  I  ain  't  got  's  fur  as  that  yet,  and  doan ' 
mean  to,  if  the  pieces  '11  stick  together.  Still, 
duchess,  if  I  'ad  come  to  it,  'ere  you  are."  He 
laughed  at  his  own  conceit. 

"  'Ow  a  man  sometimes  do  feel  'shamed  of  it— aye, 
an'  a  woman  more!  All  the  glory  alleluia  o'  life 
for  the  gentry,  an '  the  leavin  's  for  us !  We  got  our 
thoughts.  You  see,  duchess,  I  got  rebellious-like— all 
foolishness ;  I  see  it  now. ' ' 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Herion,  be  rebellious  still!" 
she  flashed. 

His  resignation  was  much  harder  for  her  to  bear 
than  his  defiance.  In  her  soul  she  was  ready  to  honor 
him  for  his  refusal  to  yield.  She,  too,  was  reverting 
to  her  earlier  self,  the  American  girl,  whose  part 
as  duchess  had  shrunk  to  the  insignificance  of  a 
scene  of  comedy.  Her  innermost  sympathy  was 
for  the  rebel  against  the  castle,  and  against  all  the 

342 


The  Yellow  Van 

assumptions  of  her  own  fantastic  ideal  at  Allonby. 
The  relation  between  village  and  castle  was  radically 
false.  Nothing  could  be  done  in  actual  life  either 
for  or  with  these  figures  of  Arcady,  as  unreal  as 
their  prototypes  of  an  Elizabethan  masque.  But 
her  anger  was  less  against  him  than  against  herself. 
She  had  tried  to  accept  a  convention  that  she  knew 
to  be  a  fable  before  experience  had  shown  it  to 
be  a  lie.  Here  was  the  miserable  proof  in  this 
poor,  maimed  thing— maimed  even  more  seriously 
in  spirit  than  in  body  for  the  battle  of  life. 
The  system  of  feudal  dependence  did  not  rear 
men,  and  was  not  meant  to  rear  them.  It  was 
perhaps  no  part  of  her  duty  to  change  it,  since 
she  was  without  the  power;  but  she  might  have  let 
it  alone. 

"Try  it  on  our  chances,"  was  all  he  said. 

"When  the  dock  work  began  again,  lady,  I  was 
too  greedy  at  it.  Went  at  it  like  a  famishin'  man 
at  'is  victuals,  for  victuals  it  was.  The  very  fust 
day  I  was  trippin'  over  a  plank  stretched  across  a 
'old,— trippin'  for  joy,  like,  an'  we  both  put  too  much 
spring  in  it,  me  an'  the  plank  together,  an'  it 
chucked  me  clean  up  in  the  air.  I  could  n  't  ha '  been 
long  gettin'  down,  but  I  'd  time  to  think  of  Slocum, 
an'  my  old  mother,  and  Rose,  and  the  child,  before 
I  touched  bottom  with  the  flat  o '  my  back.  Aye,  an ' 
more,  too.  Funny  as  it  seem,  I  fancied  along  with 
all  that  as  I  was  a  penny  on  the  toss,  an'  that  it 
was  boun'  to  finish  me  whether  I  come  down  'ead 
or  tail.  Then  a  thud,  with  not  a  bit  o'  pain  in  it, 

343 


The  Yellow  Van 

that  put  me  to  sleep  for  four  days,  till  I  woke  up 
'ere." 

He  stopped  as  though  he  expected  some  defense 
of  the  providential  order ;  but  the  duchess  said  never 
a  word. 

"They  riveted  me  together— never  mind  that.  But 
they  can't  move  me,  and  'ere  I  've  laid  ever  sence. 
When  I  come  to  she  was  at  the  bedside.  '  Doan '  you 
worry,  boy,'  she  whispers,  bendin'  over  me.  'I  've  got 
work— lots  of  it— washin' ;  an'  'ired  a  mangle.  Can't 
go  at  it  fast  enough.  But  I  got  time  for  babby,  all 
the  same,  so  there  's  more  washin'  to  do  when  the 
other  's  done,  an'  it  's  'im  that  comes  last  of  all. 
Then  I  kiss  'is  little  pink  body  all  over,  an'  put  him 
to  bed,  an'  say  my  prayers  over  him.  It  's  only  a 
short  prayer,  boy,  but  it  's  a  good  un,  for  it  's  got  to 
last  me  all  the  twenty- four  hours.  An'  'e  sends  'is 
love  to  father,  an'— an'— '  Oh !  " 

He  hid  his  face  with  the  disengaged  arm,  that 
moved  in  one  piece  like  a  semaphore,  and  Augusta 
hid  hers. 

' '  That  went  on  for  weeks  an '  weeks,  and  me  layin ' 
'ere  all  the  while.  Then  one  day  she  come,  just  same 
as  usual,  but  she  wouldn't  give  me  'er  'and  when  I 
feel  for  it;  an'  when  she  gave  it,  it  was  the  left. 
Then  I  stuck  out  for  the  other,  an'  found  it  done 
up  like  a  dolly  under  'er  shawl.  Crushed  in  the 
mangle !  Too  eager  about  it,  I  s 'pose— my  fault  over 
again.  It  drawed  'er  finger  in,  like,  when  she  'ap- 
pened  to  turn  'er  'ead  to  chirrup  to  the  kid  in  the 
.cot. 

344 


The  Yellow  Van 

"  'No  pain,  boy,'  she  says,  'till  I  put  it  under  the 
tap  to  stop  the  bleedin',  an'  nearly  well  again  now.' 

"No  pain!  Ten  times  wuss  than  anything  as  had 
'appened  to  me,  if  you  measure  it  by  the  square  inch. 

"  'Rose,'  I  said,  'we  got  to  give  in,  my  dear. 
Write  a  letter  to  Allonby.  God  A 'mighty  's  lookin' 
the  other  way.' 

"  'Not  yet,  boy.  I  can  do  beautiful  by  leanin' 
my  wrist  ag'in'  the  side  o'  the  tub.  Got  all  the 
washin'  'ome  Monday,  jest  the  same  's  before.' 

"But  'ow  could  I  'elp  seeing  it?  Faster  'n  I  got 
better,  she  was  gettin'  worse." 

"Where  is  she?"  cried  Augusta,  impatiently,  and 
reverting  even  to  the  peculiarities  of  idiom.  "I  've 
got  to  see  that  woman  right  away." 

"It  's  visitin'  day,"  he  said,  "an'  she  may  be  'ere 
any  moment.  She  might  be  'ere  now." 

"Go  on,  then." 

"Weeks  an'  weeks  more,  an'  me  still  'ere.  An' 
one  day  she  come  in  all  smilin',  an'  when  I  take  'er 
left  'and,  same  's  before,  she  laughs.  '  Where  's  your 
manners?'  she  says,  an'  draws  it  back  an'  lays  her 
right  hand  in  mine.  'Cured;  an'  God  bless  both  my 
boys ! ' 

"Cured!  'Baled,  if  you  like;  but  no  more  prizes 
for  fine  sewin'  for  my  gal.  She  split  her  finger," 
he  added  childishly,  while  another  tear  rolled  down 
his  cheek,  yet  with  a  sluggish  flow.  "No  cure  for 
my  Rose.  She  comes  reg'lar  very  visitin'  day;  but 
the  fight  's  tellin'  on  her  life :  I  can  see  that.  Every 
time  I  miss  somethin'— a  bit  o'  the  color  from  her 

345 


The  Yellow  Van 

cheek,  a  bit  o'  the  roundness  from  her  arm.  And 
the  work  done  without  break  all  this  awful  time.  Oh, 
we  ain't  ekal  to  'em,  we  ain't  ekal  to  'em!  They  're 
nearer  the  next  world  nor  we ! " 

Then  he  stopped,  and  a  piteous  trouble  came  on 
his  face.  "Where  is  she  now?"  he  wailed.  " 'Alf 
an  'our  late — never  like  that  before !  What  are  we 
chatterin'  'ere  about,  payin'  compliments?" 

Augusta  could  bear  it  no  longer.  ' '  What,  indeed  ? 
Tell  me  where  she  is,  this  instant.  Or,  stay"— as  she 
saw  him  sink  back  with  exhaustion;  "I  '11  send  the 
nurse  to  you,  and  get  it  from  her. ' ' 


346 


XXXIX 


MOMENT  more  and  she  was  hur- 
rying on  her  dismal  errand  through 
the  dismal  streets.  The  very  cab- 
man was  at  fault  in  the  labyrinth 
of  squalor.  But  at  length  he 
found  his  way  to  a  cottage  stand- 
ing in  its  own  garden— such  as  may  sometimes  be 
seen  in  the  most  densely  populated  quarters.  This 
one  was  evidently  a  relic  of  an  earlier  state  of  settle- 
ment, when  the  place  was  a  suburb,  and  the  cockney 
seeking  his  pleasure  in  the  green  fields  paused  here 
for  his  draught  of  milk.  It  had  once  been  white- 
washed, its  roof  had  once  been  tiled,  and  the  slates 
with  which  it  was  now  covered  had  once  been  whole. 
Still,  even  in  its  ruin  it  had  the  waywardness  of  the 
cottage  style.  There  was  a  rudimentary  gable,  with 
a  pleasant  confusion  of  angles  in  the  ground-plan. 
What  had  been  the  garden  was  now  a  network  of 
clothes-lines,  with  things  hanging  to  dry.  A  board 
bore  the  legend:  "Star  Laundry.  R.  Herion." 

Augusta  knocked  at  the  door,  but  there  was  no 
answer;  and  a  second  and  a  third  summons  had  no 
better  effect.  Then  a  slatternly  figure,  thrust  half- 
way out  of  a  neighboring  window,  urged,  "Try  the 
back." 

347 


The  Yellow  Van 

Augusta  picked  her  way  round  to  a  narrow  path 
that  led  to  the  back  door.  It  stood  wide  open,  and 
so  did  the  first  door  in  the  narrow  passage  within 
the  house.  She  passed  through,  without  further 
ceremony,  and  found  herself  in  a  kind  of  best  room, 
poorly  furnished,  but  quite  neat,  and  at  present  in 
the  sole  occupancy  of  a  plump  baby  crowing  in  its 
cot.  It  was  a  momentary  relief  to  what  was  other- 
wise the  perfect  stillness  of  the  house.  But  the  still- 
ness more  than  held  its  own,  until  the  child  and  a 
little  clock,  between  them,  seemed  to  be  but  inef- 
fectual protests  against  a  reign  of  silence  that  was 
charged  with  portent  to  the  anxious  visitor.  Au- 
gusta left  the  room,  hastily  called  out,  "Mrs.  Herion ! 
Mrs.  Herion!"  without  receiving  any  reply,  and 
then  followed  the  track  of  a  pungent  odor  of  soap- 
suds, which,  in  its  promise  of  human  labor,  was  also 
a  promise  of  a  sign  of  life. 

It  was  at  once  a  true  promise  and  a  false  one. 
She  was  in  the  wash-house  now,  and  a  figure  stood  at 
the  wash-tub,  bent  to  the  task,  and  with  its  back  to 
the  door.  It  was  the  house-mother,  beyond  doubt; 
and  Augusta  called  to  her  again:  "Rose!  Rose! 
Don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you  hear?" 

The  figure  never  stirred,  but  kept  rigid  in  the  lines 
of  its  slight  stoop  over  the  tub.  One  arm  was  bent ; 
the  other  clutched  at  the  left  breast. 

Augusta  screamed,  with  a  sense  of  dread  fore- 
boding, and  ran  forward.  It  was  Rose,  indeed,  but 
with  head  bowed,  eyes  fixed  in  a  glassy  stare,  and 
stone-dead  at  her  post  of  duty  and  sacrifice. 

348 


The  Yellow  Van 

She  was  still  beautiful  even  in  this  ruin.  The 
glorious  wealth  of  dark  hair  was  there,  though  it 
was  now  streaked  with  gray.  The  wan  face  had  lost 
the  unbroken  oval  of  its  line,  the  cheeks  the  color 
from  which  she  might  have  derived  her  name.  The 
poor  hand,  still  clutching  at  the  heart,  was  no  longer 
the  hand  of  the  dairymaid  of  Allonby.  It  was 
bleached  and  wrinkled  with  the  hot  water  and  with 
the  chemical  compounds ;  and  every  wrinkle,  stiffened 
in  death,  looked  as  though  it  had  been  carved  in 
stone.  Saddest  of  all  marrings— beauty  ravaged  by 
toil  and  misery  before  its  time. 

So  perished  Rose  Herion.  "I  relieve  thee  of  the 
burden  of  existence,"  whispers  the  Buddha,  as  he 
bestows  his  boon  of  eternal  sleep  on  the  perfect  man. 
The  Merciful,  the  Compassionate,  had  looked  her 
way  at  last. 


349 


XL 


JOSE  was  buried  in  the  great  church- 
yard of  Slocum  Magna.    There  was 
at  first  an  intention  of  laying  her 
in  one  of  the  London  cemeteries, 
but  Augusta  would   not  hear  of 
that.     Her  ideas  of  justice  found 
a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  in  bringing  back  the 
Herions  to  their  own  village,  dead  or  alive. 

Mr.  Raif  was  only  less  disgusted  with  the  change 
of  plan  than  the  London  undertaker.  For  him  this 
unedifying  return  of  the  prodigal  with  mortuary 
honors  was  a  humiliation  for  the  system  which  had 
driven  her  forth.  It  was  a  bad  example  for  the  vil- 
lage. Poor  Rose's  coffin  might  be  a  Pandora's  box 
charged  with  all  sorts  of  subversive  ideas  to  taint  the 
country-side.  A  pauper's  grave  for  it  in  distant  Lon- 
don might  have  furnished  him  with  the  matter  for  a 
homily.  As  it  was,  he  declined  to  take  any  part  in 
the  ceremony,  and  willingly  relinquished  his  share 
in  it  to  his  colleague. 

Augusta  attended  the  funeral,  and  not  by  deputy, 
but  in  her  own  person.  The  whole  village  was  by 
her  side.  All  sorrowed,  even  those  who,  like  Grim- 
ber,  saw  in  the  occasion  but  the  fulfilment  of  a  pro- 
phecy of  doom.  All  had  loved  Rose.  At  his  evening 

35° 


The  Yellow  Van 

sitting  Job  called  for  another  "mug  o'  yel"  to  toast 
her  memory.  "She  wur  a  good  un,  she  wur— died 
at  her  post."  There  was  a  subflavor  of  bitterness 
in  the  tribute.  He  could  not  but  reflect  that  his 
wife's  devotion  took  the  form  rather  of  driving  him 
to  his  work  than  of  dying  to  do  it  for  him.  His  select 
moral  was  not  wanting.  "It  's  what  I  always  say : 
speak  yer  mind,  an'  you  get  the  sack.  You  don't  get 
it  for  speakin':  you  get  it,  that  's  all."  It  was  the 
peasant  moral  far  and  wide:  "Lie  low." 

George  was  brought  back  to  the  village  as  soon  as 
he  could  bear  the  journey,  and  properly  provided 
for.  The  child  of  course  came  with  him,  and  the  two 
mothers  were  there  to  look  after  both.  All  this  was 
Augusta's  care.  It  was  what  the  blacksmith  called 
making  a  clean  job  of  it.  The  village  hardly  knew 
how  to  look  at  the  matter.  A  few  thought  that  the 
injured  man  was  lucky  in  the  prospect  of  being  ' '  kep ' 
for  life,"  and  that  a  paralyzed  spinal  system  was  no 
excessive  price  to  pay  for  the  luxury.  These  con- 
sequently were  free  to  regard  him  as  the  victor  in 
the  long  struggle  with  the  castle.  The  agent  nat- 
urally had  other  views.  The  crippled  man,  the  or- 
phaned child,  were  awful  object-lessons  of  the  folly 
of  resistance  to  the  system.  Who  could  have  a  doubt 
as  to  the  winning  side,  with  this  withered  thing  sun- 
ning itself  in  its  bandages  at  the  cottage  door,  by 
the  duke's  leave,  this  child  learning  to  cry  "mammy" 
to  its  grandams,  and  with  the  mother  it  was  begin- 
ning to  forget  in  the  churchyard?  The  village,  on 
the  whole,  was  much  of  this  way  of  thinking.  The 

351 


The  Yellow  Van 

muttered  moral  of  the  fireside  and  the  ale-bench 
might  have  been  expressed  in  the  terms  of  the  catch, 
' '  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave ! ' '  All  who  have  given 
up  the  struggle  with  circumstance  come  to  that, 
from  the  Trappist  to  the  Russian  peasant,  that  lotus- 
eater  of  submission  and  despair.  "Leave  it  alone; 
don't  trouble:  it  won't  last  long.  And  then,  still 
keeping  quiet,  quiet,  you  '11  be  carted— you  know 
where;  and  dust  will  be  the  end  of  it.  The  busy 
arm,  the  busy  tongue— all  vanity;  and  nothing 
helps." 

So  the  old  stillness  settles  down  upon  Slocum,  and 
the  grass  gets  time  to  grow  upon  Rose's  grave.  The 
village  resumes  its  eternal  order  of  things,  if  that 
can  be  resumed  which  has  never  suffered  check  or 
pause.  For  the  real  order  is  that  Slocum  shall  some- 
times struggle,  but  always  suffer  defeat;  that  the 
Herions  and  Spurrs  shall  unfailingly  return  to  heel 
after  futile  divagations,  and  the  Grimbers,  Gurts, 
and  Sketts  never  leave  the  path.  Generations  reared 
in  dependence  and  submission  find  it  easiest  to  go  on 
in  that  way. 

So  thinks  Mr.  Kisbye  as  he  sits  musing  in  his  li- 
brary to-day  over  a  binding  and  a  cigarette— so,  and 
otherwise.  The  victory  over  George  is  as  much  his 
victory  as  the  castle's.  Brain  has  won  in  this  skir- 
mish, as  it  is  going  to  win  in  the  final  battle.  The 
money-lender  is  sure  that  he  has  made  a  wise  choice 
in  living  from  a  single  organ.  He  has  found  it  pay 
to  be  without  heart  and,  except  on  the  rare  occasions 
on  which  he  has  to  call  himself  a  fool,  without  con- 

352 


The  Yellow  Van 

science.  Money  has  given  him  all  he  needs.  His 
want  of  ruth  is  quite  consistent  with  taste,  both  in 
life  and  art.  He  knows  a  painting  as  well  as  here 
and  there  a  one,  and  will  live  to  the  end  amid  the 
harmonies  of  sense.  He  touches  literature  in  rare 
covers,  and  sometimes,  though  not  without  a  sort  of 
derision,  in  the  matter  they  contain.  In  all,  he  has 
realized  to  the  full  that  prevalent  conception  of 
life  as  a  conflict  of  forces  for  the  wise  satisfaction 
of  a  set  of  appetites.  He  is  as  unpitying  at  need 
as  a  spike-nosed  fish  ripping  up  another  for  a  meal. 
He  loves  all  good  things  in  sheer  technical  perfec- 
tion as  manifestations  of  power— good  music,  good 
talk,  good  eating  and  drinking ;  and  he  loathes  more 
heartily  than  ever  all  who  try  to  give  them  an  ethical 
import.  Canvas  and  printed  page  alike,  as  things 
said,  are  nothing  to  him.  They  exist  but  for  the  way 
of  saying  it.  He  reads  in  many  languages;  and  in 
ours,  it  may  be  suspected,  not  as  a  mother-tongue. 
He  has  just  bought  Milton's  greatest  poem  in  a  two- 
hundred-and-fifty-guinea  edition,  and  he  is  now  dip- 
ping into  it  to  find  refreshment  in  its  principal  char- 
acter, and  the  luxury  of  contempt  in  its  dialogues 
on  the  all-sufficiency  of  virtue.  "Pa— ta— tra!  and 
that  's  dog  French  for  it ! "  he  chuckles  as  he  closes 
the  book  with  a  snap. 

His  disdain  of  the  lowly  is  chiefly  induced  by  their 
interested  chatter,  as  born  fools,  about  the  right  and 
the  wrong.  His  wrath  against  George,  dating  from 
the  fateful  outburst  on  the  night  of  the  meeting,  has 
never  cooled.  He  despises  Liddicot  as  a  weakling. 

23  353 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  hopes  to  win  Mary  yet  by  sheer  force  of  will. 
He  feels  sure  that  the  reversion  of  the  honors  and  the 
pride  and  power  of  feudalism  is  to  his  order.  To 
them  the  country-side  must  ultimately  come,  by  right 
of  that  modern  lordship  of  gold  that  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  lordship  of  the  sword. 

His  next  victory  promises  to  be  at  the  expense 
of  the  Duke  of  Allonby.  He  has  finally  consented 
to  sell,  and  on  extremely  reasonable  terms,  the  piece 
of  land  which  has  so  long  spoiled  the  view  from  The 
Towers.  The  real  price  is  an  invitation  to  dinner. 
The  solicitors  have  met  once  more,  and  Mr.  Kisbye  's 
have  suggested  that  his  client  may  be  found  tractable 
on  these  terms.  The  duke  has  undertaken  to  see 
what  can  be  done,  and  has  even  sounded  his  wife. 
Augusta  said  never  a  word. 


354 


XLI 


T  is  nearly  a  year  since  Mr.  Gooding 
left.  Now  he  is  at  Liddicot  again, 
and  crossing  the  moat  on  his  way 
to  luncheon  with  the  squire.  He 
found  the  invitation  waiting  for 
him  on  his  arrival  at  Allonby  last 
night. 

The  scene  was  pretty  much  the  same  as  before— 
the  visitor  on  the  drawbridge,  Mary  in  espial  at  the 
turret  window.  The  squire  did  the  honors  of  recep- 
tion, with  his  son  at  hand.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  exceed  their  cordiality.  Tom,  now  nearly 
well,  has  raised  the  young  American  to  the  highest 
grade  in  his  esteem.  He  has  announced  his  de- 
liberate conviction  that  Mr.  Gooding  is  "a  sports- 
man." Beyond  this,  notoriously,  it  is  impossible  to 
go,  as  it  includes  the  lower  degree  of  one  who  "plays 
the  game."  He  means  the  game  of  life,  though  his 
praise  might  be  more  precious  if  he  meant  the  game 
of  polo. 

He  is  quite  happy  once  more,  and  has  returned  to 
his  old  cheery  conception  of  the  terrestrial  sphere 
as  a  picnic  for  persons  of  position.  Mary  has  been 
busy  with  him  in  loving  care  of  his  convalescence, 
and  for  him  in  promoting  an  inquisitorial  examina- 

355 


The  Yellow  Van 

tion  of  his  affairs  by  the  family  solicitors.  Messrs. 
Stallbrass,  Stallbrass,  Fruhling,  Jenkins  &  Prothero 
have  succeeded  in  bringing  Kisbye  to  something  that 
may  be  called  terms.  Tom  is  going  to  lead  a  new  life. 
It  is  a  pleasant  illusion  for  him  and  for  his  relatives. 
These  total  changes  of  heart  and  conduct  belong  to 
the  imaginative  literature  of  resolve. 

Delighted  as  she  was,  Mary  met  her  old  friend 
with  something  of  embarrassment.  She  was  no 
longer  the  rather  critical  young  person  trying  to 
classify  him  for  her  pigeon-holes  of  character.  He 
had  established  a  kind  of  mastery  over  her  spirit, 
just  because  he  never  made  the  vestige  of  a  claim. 
There  he  was,  always  efficient  in  an  emergency,  and, 
to  all  appearance,  as  indeed  very  much  in  reality, 
never  in  the  least  degree  aware  of  it.  Mary  began 
to  wonder  how  she  could  carry  it  through,  and  to 
arrange  her  commonplaces  in  advance— a  fatal  por- 
tent of  discomfiture  in  encounters  of  this  description. 

His  tact,  or  perhaps  only  the  mere  human  nature 
in  him,  saved  them  both.  They  had  been  separated 
long  enough  to  have  memories  in  common ;  and,  when 
they  found  themselves  alone  in  a  walk  after  luncheon, 
he,  without  the  slighest  effort,  became  the  boy  again. 
It  gave  her  immense  relief  by  putting  her,  at  least 
for  the  moment,  on  their  old  footing.  He  had  struck 
the  note  of  the  "chatter  of  irresponsible  frivolity" 
as  between  boy  and  girl. 

"And  the  good  old  automatic  supply?"  he  asked. 
"Still  going  strong?" 

"Now  please  be  intelligible." 

356 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Raif '  s  village— penny  in  the  slot,  and  the  figures 
work. ' ' 

"Don't  be  irreverent." 

' '  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  they  work  best  when  you 
put  in  pebbles.  But  there,  I  'm  not  bound  to  crim- 
inate myself." 

"That  's  a  confession.  Now  I  know  who  brought 
Grimb'er  and  Job  together  on  that  awful  day." 

"I  can  prove  an  alibi.  I  was  under  Augusta's 
eye  all  the  time." 

"I  hope  you  have  n't  come  back  to  upset  any  more 
apple-carts,  even  Mr.  Kaif's." 

"No;  duty  before  pleasure  when  the  bell  rings." 

A  certain  change  in  him  had  not  escaped  Mary's 
eye.  He  was  very  much  the  man  now.  She  liked 
him  the  better  for  it,  yet  it  made  their  present  foot- 
ing of  mere  banter  hard  to  maintain. 

"Poor  little  Slocum— you  won't  care  for  it  any 
more. ' ' 

"More  than  ever,  perhaps,  in  a  way." 

"But  you  are  going  back  soon  to  look  after  your 
own  villagers." 

"My  villagers!"  he  laughed. 

"What  have  I  said  wrong  now?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  And  all  I  mean  to  say  is  that 
they  're  not  exactly  taking  any  just  now." 

"Any  what?" 

"Looking  after." 

"How  do  they  manage,  I  wonder?" 

"They  manage  for  themselves,  I  fancy,"  he  said. 

"What  a  funny  country!" 

357 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Oh,  it 's  just  their  way.  You  see,  they  are  all 
so  many  little  Dukes  of  Allonby,  ownership  and  all ; 
and  you  can 't  imagine  the  extent  of  their  investments 
in  false  pride." 

"Five  hundred  villagers,  five  hundred  masters. 
Does  n  't  it  seem  simpler,  now,  to  cut  down  the  mas- 
ters by  four  hundred  and  ninety-nine?" 

"Simpler  for  the  one?"  he  said.  "But  it  would 
be  sheer  depopulation:  the  villagers  would  have  to 
follow  suit.  Ah,  you  must  travel  if  you  want  to  see 
sights.  I  always  call  Slocum  my  new  world." 

"I  know  why  you  came,"  she  said  slyly.  "Au- 
gusta told  me.  You  're  the  American  invasion." 

He  gave  a  little  start,  then  laughed.  "What  's 
that?" 

"Don't  look  so  innocent.  You  want  to  buy  up 
things  here.  You  '11  never  do  it;  we  won't  sell." 

"Not  even  your  match  factories  and  your  steam 
lines?" 

"Oh,  things  of  that  sort!" 

"What  other  things,  Miss  Mary?" 

"Well,  the  fine  things— Westminster  Abbey,  for 
instance. ' ' 

"We  don't  bid  even  for  the  pulpit,  in  spite  of 
the  Christian  Science  and  the  wisdom  of  the  East 
that  now  go  with  the  lot." 

"Allonby  Castle,  perhaps?" 

The  vein  of  irony  was  so  unusual  with  her  that 
she  grew  discursive  with  the  novelty  of  the  sensation. 
"The  land  will  soon  be  about  the  only  thing  we  have 
left.  Why  not  try  that?" 

358 


The  Yellow  Van 

He  was  silent.  It  was  a  good  shot.  His  trust  was 
actually  meditating  the  greatest  venture  of  all— the 
purchase  of  a  huge  tract  of  land  in  England  for  the 
experiment  of  farming  under  modern  conditions  and 
on  the  grand  scale.  Farming  as  an  industry  was 
their  watchword,  not  as  the  mere  labor  test  of  a 
pauper  caste.  And,  for  their  principle,  they  held 
that  not  the  English  land,  but  only  the  English  land 
system,  had  broken  down.  Fields  laid  out,  plowed, 
sown,  and  reaped  by  the  square  mile,  with  good 
wages  for  good  workers,  each  man  straining  to  do  his 
best  under  the  inducements  of  hope ;  the  farm-house 
a  laboratory;  the  farm-hands  chemist's  assistants; 
the  barn  an  engineer's  shop;  the  hall  abolished  as 
only  a  more  glittering  poorhouse;  the  best  tools,  the 
best  brains,  the  best  men  everywhere;  the  market- 
place a  real  exchange,  with  the  railways  brought  into 
line,  by  purchase,  too,  if  need  be,  as  parts  of  the 
wondrous  plan.  And,  for  the  glorious  outcome,  Eng- 
land fed  without  protection  from  her  own  fields,  and 
the  surplus  exported  at  a  profit  to  the  United  States. 

''Uncle  Sam  as  the  'squoire,'  "  she  continued— 
"tail-coat,  straps,  and  all.  A  second  conquest  of 
England." 

' '  Why  conquer  when  you  can  buy  ? ' ' 

' '  Dear  old  Allonby !    Dear  old  Liddicot ! ' ' 

"Dear  old  China!" 

"Now  I  wonder  what  that  means !  I  don't  see  the 
point." 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  worship  of  ancestors,"  he 
said. 

359 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  was  thinking 
of  our  poor  aristocracy  and  gentry. ' ' 

"Same  thing." 

"We  don't  worship  them;  we  respect  them  for 
having  made  England  what  it  is." 

"Indeed  they  have." 

"That  's  a  sneer,"  said  Mary. 

"It  is,  and  I  ask  your  pardon.  But  please  con- 
sider the  provocation— not  from  you ;  oh,  never  from 
you ! ' '  And  he  went  on  with  a  vehemence,  albeit  de- 
liberate and  restrained,  that  she  had  never  seen  in 
him  before :  ' '  Such  a  country  going  to  such  waste ! 
Such  a  system  for  running  England  without  the  co- 
operation of  the  English  people!  Training  them 
down  to  the  level  of  their  position,  not  up  to  the 
level  of  their  powers  and  their  rights.  Their  educa- 
tion, high  and  low,  still  a  joke  for  the  competing 
foreigner,  and  a  clerical  one  at  that!  The  infinite 
littleness  of  the  whole  thing,  the  poverty  of  the 
issues,  the  inaccessibility  to  ideas!" 

"We  are  not  going  to  have  our  country  ruled  on 
'business  principles,'  "  she  faltered. 

"Why  not,  Miss  Mary?  Business  principles  are 
honor,  honesty,  justice  from  man  to  man.  What  's 
the  matter  with  them?" 

"Wooden  nutmegs— there!"  cried  Mary,  seizing 
the  first  missile  that  came  to  hand. 

"Remounts,"  he  retorted,  breaking  into  a  hearty 
laugh.  "The  men  who  managed  that  business  have 
not  much  to  learn  from  anybody." 

360 


The  Yellow  Van 

But  Mary  was  not  beaten  yet.  She  remembered 
what  she  had  heard  from  the  squire  as  to  the  humble- 
ness of  Mr.  Gooding's  origin.  Her  pride  of  birth 
came  to  her  aid.  To  think  of  it — this  person  with 
his  masterful  way  with  his  betters,  separated  by  only 
two  generations  from  a  peasant  of  one  of  her  fa- 
ther's fields! 

"You  must  not  talk  to  me  like  that,"  she  said  in 
her  grandest  manner— the  manner  which  she  had 
caught  less  by  precept  than  by  the  mere  example  of 
the  picture-gallery  at  Liddicot. 

The  real  sting  of  the  rebuke  was  entirely  lost  on 
the  young  man.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  might  not  approach  her  on  a  footing  of  perfect 
social  equality.  The  only  degrees  he  knew  of  in  his 
dealings  with  his  fellow-creatures  were  those  of  sense, 
energy,  and  courage— faculty,  in  a  word,  with,  of 
course,  a  due  allowance  for  the  voluntary  service  of 
homage  where  women  were  concerned.  Her  tone  now 
made  him  keenly  apprehensive  that  he  might  have 
been  wanting  in  the  last. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  failed  in  respect,"  he  said. 
"Please  forgive  me  again." 

"It  is  nothing  for  which  you  need  care  to  have 
my  forgiveness,"  said  Mary,  coldly,  quite  misun- 
derstanding him  still. 

"I  would  not  say  anything  displeasing  to  you  for 
the  world." 

' '  I  am  afraid  you  would, ' '  said  Mary,  still  with  a 
good  deal  of  heat  beneath  the  surface  of  ice. 

361 


The  Yellow  Van 

"Is  not  that  rather  ungenerous?" 

"It  is  not  meant  so,  I  assure  you.  You  might 
sometimes  fail  to  understand,  that  is  all." 

"That  is  it,"  he  said,  with  the  same  innocent 
audacity  as  before.  "One  does  not  take  the  proper 
account  of  ways  of  thinking,  ways  of  life. ' ' 

It  was  an  apology  to  the  woman  still,  not  to  the 
squire's  daughter. 

"We  are  not  exactly  your  inferiors— please  re- 
member that,"  she  said,  by  way  of  putting  him  on 
the  right  track. 

"I  know  little  of  the  others,  but  I  shall  always 
consider  myself  yours. ' ' 

She  began  to  think  that  he  had  caught  her  mean- 
ing at  last,  but  she  was  woefully  mistaken. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  I  could  so  long  have  had 
the  privilege  of  your  companionship  without  feeling 
the  superiority  of  your  goodness,  of  your  devotion  to 
your  father  and  your  brother,  the  charm  of— ' ' 

If  he  saved  himself  from  a  still  more  personal  com- 
pliment, it  was  only  by  a  hair's-breadth. 

Mary  began  to  understand  at  last,  and  she  left 
the  society  of  her  ancestors  and  came  back  to  her 
own  time.  The  mention  of  her  brother  turned  the 
whole  current  of  her  thoughts  as  with  a  pang  of  the 
sense  of  ingratitude. 

"My  devotion !  Can  I  ever  forget  yours— the  long 
journey — ' ' 

"An  outing." 

And  in  that  train  of  thoughts  came  the  memory 
of  his  supreme  service  to  herself  in  the  affair  of  the 

362 


The  Yellow  Van 

card-table,  the  one  crisis  of  her  simple  life.  It  came 
with  just  such  a  rush  of  feeling  as  had  kept  her 
silent  and  abashed  in  his  presence  when  first  she 
realized  the  immensity  of  the  obligation.  Was  it  for 
her  to  give  him  lessons,  when  in  all  their  relations 
his  had  ever  been  the  guiding  hand  and  brain,  the 
surer  for  his  lightness  of  touch  and  his  unconscious 
avoidance  of  all  vestige  of  a  claim  ?  Beside  such  ap- 
peals, what  grossness  in  any  other,  and  especially 
in  her  own  of  mere  social  position !  She  rejoiced 
that  this  blunder  had  escaped  him  by  the  accidents 
of  nature  and  training,  and  she  felt  the  full  force 
of  his  homage  to  her  womanhood,  and  to  that  alone. 
She  was  conquered  by  his  sheer  faculty— the  only 
thing,  happily,  thank  God,  that  wins  at  last,  or  where 
would  be  the  hopes  of  the  race?  Here  was  the 
strength,  in  all  its  finest  attributes,  for  which  she 
had  learned  to  long,  and  especially  in  gentleness 
and  never-failing  courtesy.  Here,  once  more,  was  a 
man! 

"It  is  for  you  to  forgive  me  now,"  she  said.  "I 
am  but  a  girl  yet,  and  you  are  a  school-boy  no  more. ' ' 

"No,  no,"  he  laughed.  "I  am  not  to  be  dubbed 
into  that  dignity  at  a  moment's  notice.  Let  me  still 
fancy  we  are  only  boy  and  girl  together,  for  it  has 
been  the  greatest  happiness  of  my  life.  But  since 
you  embolden  me  to  plead  for  favors,  little  play- 
mate,"—and  he  took  her  hand,— "promise  me  that 
if  I  come  to  you  when  I  am  really  dubbed,  and  ask 
you  a  question,  you  will  try  to  give  me  a  kind 
answer." 

363 


The  Yellow  Van 

She  said  nothing,  but  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face 
as  she  met  his  look  with  eyes  as  of  molten  fire  from 
rising  tears. 

It  was  a  reply  of  a  sort,  and  it  was  so  encouraging 
that,  greatly  daring,  he  drew  her  gently  toward  him. 

And  so  it  came  about. 


364 


XLII 

HE  Saturday  before  the  corona- 
tion, and  glorious  August  weather. 
London  was  never  brighter— or  less 
severe— flags  out,  crowds  from  all 
parts  of  the  country  and,  in  spite 
of  previous  disappointment,  from 
most  parts  of  the  earth.  Every  other  conscript  in 
this  huge  army  of  pleasure  looked  as  though  he  car- 
ried the  marshal's  baton  in  his  knapsack— that  is  to 
say,  as  one  still  hoping  for  a  ticket  for  Westminster 
Abbey. 

The  central  point,  as  the  great  meeting-place  for 
plebs  and  aristocracy,  was  the  Marble  Arch.  All 
else  in  London  is  for  one  or  the  other.  This  is  for 
both.  Here  rank  and  wealth  and  fashion  taking  the 
air,  yonder  their  deadly  opposites  commending  them 
most  heartily  to  the  devil,  in  perpetual  public  meet- 
ing, under  the  friendly  guardianship  of  the  police. 
No  other  scene  in  the  world  to  match  this  for  the 
hate  of  hate,  the  toleration  of  policy  and  contempt. 
The  police  know  what  they  are  about.  This  as- 
sumption that  the  devil  is  ever  ready  to  anticipate  is 
one  of  the  most  persistent  errors  of  the  vulgar.  He 
is  a  great  student  of  history,  and  he  bides  his  time. 
For  those  who  refuse  to  bide  theirs,  the  site  of  the 

365 


The  Yellow  Van 

busy  old  gallows  of  Hogarth's  day  is  close  at  hand, 
with  its  memorial  stone : ' '  Here  stood  Tyburn  Gate. ' ' 
It  is  a  gentle  hint  to  the  disaffected  that  valor  must 
still  be  tempered  by  discretion. 

A  street  preacher,  who  naturally  enjoyed  the  same 
liberty  as  the  others,  held  forth  on  the  late  postpone- 
ment of  the  ceremony  as  a  judgment  on  the  nation 
for  its  slack  attendance  at  church.  The  ballad-mon- 
gers were  in  full  cry,  one  of  them  on  the  subject  of 
imperial  emigration.  With  its  burden  of  "  I  mye  be 
a  millionhair, "  his  song  was  quite  a  battle-hymn  of 
the  democracy,  at  need.  The  cheap  jacks  bawled 
their  wares— coronation  medals  and  biographies  of 
the  royal  pair.  The  grass  was  black  with  recumbent 
loafers  sunning  themselves  through  the  long  hours 
between  the  closing  of  the  casual  wards  in  the  morn- 
ing and  their  opening  at  night. 

Lord  Ogreby  and  his  family  occupied  a  carriage 
in  the  drive.  That  nobleman  was  at  once  cheerful 
and  depressed.  His  house  had  for  generations 
claimed  the  right  of  offering  a  toothpick  to  the  mon- 
arch, after  dinner,  on  coronation  day.  It  was  done 
on  bended  knee.  The  right  had  not  been  denied  on 
the  present  occasion  by  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Earl 
Marshal,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  other  members 
of  the  Court  of  Claims ;  but,  as  the  Lord  Chancellor 
had  observed  in  giving  judgment,  after  counsel  had 
raised  many  points  of  antiquarian  and  feudal  lore, 
the  question  was,  in  this  instance,  beyond  the  pur- 
view of  the  court.  Since  there  would  be  no  state 
dinner,  there  could  be  no  toothpick  in  active  demand 
as  part  of  the  pageant.  The  right  was  therefore  in 


The  Yellow  Van 

abeyance  on  the  present  occasion.  The  applicant 
submitted,  with  the  sense  of  duty  done :  at  any  rate, 
he  had  fought  the  good  fight.  "I  have  my  children 
to  think  of,"  he  said  with  spirit,  "and  one  day  the 
banquet  may  be  revived."  He  was  now  bearing 
home  a  brand-new  instrument  of  this  description, 
ordered  perhaps  precipitately;  and,  with  its  inner 
and  outer  casings,  it  occupied  no  small  part  of  the 
roof  of  his  coach. 

He  had  just  exchanged  bows  with  a  lady  driving 
in  the  opposite  direction  and  toward  the  arch.  Her 
fine  face  wore  an  air  of  weariness  that  heightened 
the  refinement  of  its  beauty.  After  passing  the  gate, 
her  carriage  turned  down  the  Bayswater  Road,  and 
drew  up  before  a  small  turfed  inclosure  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  on  the  right-hand  side.  It  was  dismissed 
there,  with  orders  to  call  again  in  an  hour. 

The  person  who  alighted  was  Augusta,  Duchess 
of  Allonby,  in  town  with  the  rest  for  the  coming 
ceremony.  The  place  was  her  favorite  retreat  for 
meditation,  and  it  had  been  provided  by  the  munifi- 
cence of  an  estimable  woman,  now  dead.  It  was  a 
small  chapel,  or  a  large  monastic  cell,  just  as  you 
chose  to  take  it,  but  a  chapel  without  a  service  or 
other  hindrance  to  pure  spiritual  contemplation. 
Outside,  the  great  roaring  thoroughfare ;  within,  the. 
peace  of  the  desert,  a  house  of  reverie. 

Thus  spoke  an  inscription  on  its  gate  : 

"Passengers  through  the  busy  streets  of  Lon- 
don, enter  this  sanctuary  for  rest  and  silence  and 
prayer." 

367 


The  Yellow  Van 

And  again: 

"Is  it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  that  pass  by?  Come 
and  rest  awhile.  Commune  with  your  own  hearts, 
and  be  still." 

The  duchess  did  not  immediately  enter  the  chapel. 
Nodding  to  the  solitary  attendant  at  the  door,  she 
passed  through  a  passage  to  a  large  garden  at  the 
back,  well  hidden  from  the  road.  It  was  quite  in  the 
note,  being  a  garden  of  the  cozy  dead.  For  years 
they  had  been  disturbed  by  no  newcomer  of  their 
own  recumbent  order.  They  must  have  relished  their 
exclusiveness :  they  were  the  dead  of  St.  George's, 
Hanover  Square.  Posterity  had  not  been  unmind- 
ful of  their  comfort.  Their  gravestones  had  been 
removed  from  the  original  sites,  as  though  to  lighten 
the  indispensable  labors  of  the  last  day ;  and  all  was 
now  in  readiness  for  either  the  trump  of  the  arch- 
angel or  the  pick  of  the  speculative  builder.  One 
monument  showed  that  poor  Laurence  Sterne  had 
here  found  a  bed,  after  the  weariness  of  his  closing 
pilgrimage.  It  was  but  a  bed  for  the  night.  The 
flowery  inscription,  however,  said  nothing  about  the 
body-snatchers  who,  in  due  course  of  business,  had 
stolen  him  away.  Not  for  that  mercurial  spirit  even 
the  rest  of  the  grave ! 

Augusta  took  a  turn  round  the  cemetery,  and  then 
entered  the  chapel.  At  first  she  had  it  all  to  herself, 
for  London  set  small  store  by  this  particular  bounty 
of  the  pious  founder.  At  a  later  stage  she  was  joined, 


The  Yellow  Van 

on  tiptoe,  by  a  gray-headed  senior,  with  one  hand  in 
a  sling  and  the  other  at  his  brow— like  herself,  ap- 
parently a  refugee  from  the  too  insistent  event  of 
the  day.  He  had  evidently  come  to  think  things  out 
on  his  own  account,  and  he  was  quite  unmindful  of 
her  presence. 

She  would  have  preferred  to  be  alone.  It  is  amaz- 
ing how  few  opportunities  of  this  sort  any  of  us  en- 
joy. There  is  ever  some  one  by,  within  intrusive 
hearing  or  scarcely  less  intrusive  sight.  The  part- 
nership of  bed  and  board  with  humanity  is  some- 
times too  rigorous.  We  have  to  be  gathered  together 
even  for  prayer.  We  live  in  crowds,  think  in  crowds, 
and  rarely  have  the  happiness  to  stand  with  no  fel- 
low-creature beyond  the  range  of  suggestion.  Even 
in  this  instance,  it  was  still  possible  to  spy  other 
strangers  of  a  kind  on  the  pictured  wall.  Its  fine 
sacred  art  told  of  things  done  long  ago;  yet  these 
might  still  have  been  kept  more  in  the  key  of  re- 
pose. The  too  thunderous  and  tumultuous  fellow- 
ship of  the  prophets,  with  their  deeds  of  judgment, 
the  excessively  strenuous,  though  glorious,  company 
of  the  apostles,  with  their  energy  of  ministration, 
seemed  superfluous  in  such  a  connection.  The 
Founder  in  the  wilderness,  another  founder  under 
the  tree,  an  apostle  of  quietism  in  his  cell,  would  have 
been  enough  for  that  contemplation,  "without  form, 
likeness,  manner,  or  figure,"  which  is  the  all  in  all. 

So  Augusta  just  shut  her  eyes  and  began  a  medita- 
tion. She  was  sick  at  heart.  Her  grief  for  the  death 
of  Rose,  long  and  deep,  had  gradually  been  merged 

24  369 


The  Yellow  Van 

in  a  sort  of  personal  disappointment.  She  had  come 
out  to  her  new  life  with  such  high  hopes,  and  it  had 
all  ended  in  this!  At  first  she  meant  to  accept  the 
system  and  work  it  out  on  its  own  lines.  This  failed 
when  she  found  that  it  ground  out  poverty,  depen- 
dence, and  depopulation  as  by  a  mechanical  law. 
Then,  fatuously,  she  aspired  to  reform  it,  and  that 
hope  was  now  buried  in  a  grave.  The  system  had 
triumphed  over  her  more  than  over  all  the  rest  of 
them  put  together.  The  only  part  before  her  now 
was  the  insignificant  one  of  leader  of  fashion  and 
ornament  of  the  country-side.  What  a  business,  to 
be  forever  setting  an  example  in  trivial  things,  as 
one  of  the  great  exemplars  of  a  nation  perishing  of 
the  imitation  of  its  betters ! 

"The  old  order,  the  old  manners,  the  old  faith- 
piteous  to  have  to  smirk  one's  way  through  all  their 
proprieties,  feeling  all  the  while  how  they  have  lost 
their  shaping  virtue  for  the  men  and  women  of  the 
time.  A  day  in  Mr.  Raif 's  school  as  a  preparation 
for  the  shock  of  our  modern  battle  of  life !  A  day 
in  Mr.  Kaif 's  church !  Really,  some  religions  are  not 
much  better  than  some  stimulants.  The  Dutch 
courage  of  these  rites  for  the  ordeals  of  poverty, 
pain,  and  death!  And  most  of  them  so  dreadfully 
old-fashioned,  as  if  the  chief  business  of  the  science 
of  all  the  sciences  was  not  to  be  perpetually  renew- 
ing itself  with  the  larger  outlook  on  nature,  and  the 
expansion  of  the  mind  and  soul.  Never  has  any 
church  been  the  same  thing,  thank  God,  in  any  two 
ages,  or  even  in  any  two  generations.  Man's  re- 

37° 


The  Yellow  Van 

ligions  are  as  the  hairs  of  his  head  for  number,  and 
inevitably  so.  And  Mr.  Eaif  trying  so  hard  to  make 
us  all  letter-perfect  in  the  prayer-book  of  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday!" 

The  ray  from  the  skylight,  after  illuminating  the 
face  of  a  pictured  apostle,  was  now  rendering  the 
same  service  to  a  martyr.  Nothing  else  had  hap- 
pened. The  stranger  kept  himself  to  himself  with  a 
discretion  beyond  praise.  He  stroked  his  wounded 
hand  from  time  to  time,  but  he  never  once  looked 
Augusta's  way. 

"And  sometimes,  to  be  fair,"  she  mused,  being 
still  fancy-free,  "the  poverty  of  the  discoveries,  the 
mere  islands  under  the  lee  that  are  mistaken  for  a 
continent!  Our  smart  set  touchingly  busy  under 
American  leadership  in  applying  the  principles  of 
the  game  of  bluff  to  man's  relations  with  his  Maker 
— trying  to  will  themselves  into  a  good  time,  and  the 
prolongation  of  it  in  earthly  immortality.  Religions 
that  satisfy  the  sense  of  wonder,  the  sense  of  credul- 
ity, without  making  any  troublesome  demands  on 
the  sense  of  duty.  Mere  fancy  patterns  in  Relieving, 
without  even  the  tables  from  the  Mount.  Made-up  .» 
mysteries  of  the  great  panjandrum,  coupled  with  the 
right  to  do  as  you  darned  please.  Life  all  apparatus. 
Automatic  cures  for  drunkenness,  and  medicated 
baths  for  weakness  of  the  will.  Interested  quests 
for  missing  faculties  stolen  or  strayed  through  the 
ages.  Whole  drawing-rooms  full  of  Pointed  Toes 
trying  to  think  anemic  glands  into  energy,  in  the 
hope  of  coming  on  the  track  of  their  lost  tribes  of 

371 


The  Yellow  Van 

sense.  Why  not  make  the  best  of  those  you  have? 
Marcus  took  overmuch  pains  in  the  enumeration 
of  his  debts  to  the  wise.  He  forgot  his  debt  to  the 
fools  in  teaching  him  what  to  laugh  at  and  to  loathe. 

"Poor  Points !  on  the  issue  of  this  warfare  between 
them  and  the  Squares  turns  the  welfare  of  England, 
and  of  all  human  society.  History  is  but  a  record 
of  its  varied  fortunes.  The  Points  had  a  merry  time 
of  it  in  the  Italy  of  the  Renascence,  and,  as  we  know, 
their  symbol  actually  curled  upward  with  the  sense 
of  successful  aspiration  to  the  mastery  of  life.  But 
a  time  came! 

"The  time  is  coming  here;  and  England  's  going 
to  win,  and  beat  down  its  baser  part  under  its  feet. 
Let  us  have  that  faith  in  our  race." 

A  fly  buzzed,  not  without  shock  to  the  spirit  of  the 
scene.*  It  was  tumult  of  a  kind.  Augusta  thought 
"shoo!"  to  it  with  the  happiest  results;  and,  after 
this  triumphant  exercise  of  will  power,  resumed. 

Meanwhile  the  stranger  had  not  been  idle  on  his 
own  account.  He  uttered  no  word,  gave  no  outward 
and  visible  sign  beyond  the  occasional  stroking  of 
the  bandaged  hand.  He  merely  thought  his  thoughts, 
like  his  neighbor,  but,  by  a  law  of  sympathy  which 
others  may  know  how  to  trace,  they  flowed  more  or 
less  in  the  same  current  as  hers.  For  this  is  what 
he  was  saying  to  himself : 

"Real  superiorities  anywhere  the  rarest  thing. 
Whole  sections  in  church  and  state  perishing  for  the 
want  of  them,  and  the  mere  caretakers  not  likely 
to  be  of  much  avail  on  England's  coming  judgment- 

372 


The  Yellow  Van 

day.  I  mind  me  of  a  certain  sheep 's  carcass  seen  out- 
side a  butcher's  shop  at  Christmas-tide,  with  its  card 
to  indicate  high  honors  at  Islington.  Yet  the  throat 
bore  witness  to  just  the  same  treatment  as  that  of 
the  common  fellows  alongside  which  had  gained  no 
decoration.  And  the  pompous  victim  had  no  doubt 
been  hustled  to  his  doom  and  stretched  on  the  rack 
as  rudely  by  the  fierce  tireman  with  the  knife.  Fancy 
its  ineffectual  bleat :  'Mind  what  you  are  doing !  I  'm 
a  first  prize  at  the  cattle  show ! '  At  this  stage,  alas ! 
it  was  but  one  sheep  more." 

In  his  next  flight  he  almost  touched  Augusta  mind 
to  mind. 

11  America,  best  of  actual  nations,  no  doubt,  as 
once  was  England  before  it.  But  ware  breakers! 
What  are  you  going  to  Americanize  ?  Match  factories 
and  steam  lines  are  nearly  done ;  but  social  justice- 
how  do  you  stand  for  that?  America  eaten  up  with 
the  pride  of  life,  with  Europe  waiting  for  a  lead. 
Are  you  going  to  carry  it  and  yourself  farther,  or 
only  to  sink  back  into  mother's  arms?  Once  the 
hope  of  the  nations,  now  only  their  competitor  and 
conqueror— a  very  different  thing!  Money  the  too 
universal  test :  preachers  and  poets  filing  their  return 
of  income  for  the  newspapers,  to  show  how  well  it 
pays.  Not  less  riches  or  less  comfort  for  all,  but  a 
better  share  for  some.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  the  back  premises  ? 

"Come  over  and  help  as  soon  as  you  can,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  helping  yourself.  Society  everywhere 
apparently  under  sentence  of  death  for  ill-distributed 

373 


The  Yellow  Van 

wealth— pomp  and  privation  both  exceeding  all 
healthful  bounds,  with  resultant  deadness  of  soul 
and  stint  of  body.  For  the  last  see  factories  and 
'  far-flung  battle-line. ' 

"Touching,  yet  foolish  too,  the  idle  rich  every- 
where, now  so  extensively  resorting  to  cremation  in 
the  vain  hope  of  giving  the  recording-angel  the  slip. 
He  '11  find  the  body,  you  bet.  Discourage,  if  pos- 
sible, by  suitable  remonstrances.  Cremation  a  good 
thing,  but  must  be  loved  for  itself. 

* '  Will  anybody  give  England  a  new  type  of  young 
man,  the  nation's  pride?  The  government  might 
offer  a  prize.  High  marks  for  modesty,  simplicity, 
earnestness,  book-work  in  the  things  that  count,  and 
the  power  of  'swotting'  at  the  art  of  life.  General 
aim— highest  possible  differentiation  from  the  snipe. 
Class  1,  Young  Men  of  Family ;  Class  2,  Officers  and 
Gentlemen;  Class  3,  Officers;  Class  4,  Sons  of  Toil. 
Extra  prizes  for  young  women  to  match. 

"A  new  sort  of  person  wanted  very  much  every- 
where. Meantime,  the  counter-jumper  may  be  of 
help.  Strike,  but  hear.  He  is  frugal,  hard-working, 
obliging,  and  of  a  more  than  courtly  civility.  His 
whole  life  a  training  in  these  qualities,  with  their 
underlying  self-denial  and  self-control.  Has  been 
under  the  harrow,  no  small  part  of  it.  A  wise  legis- 
lature should  see  that  every  child  had  a  touch  of 
this  instrument  at  the  start.  It  is  far  more  impor- 
tant than  the  lancet;  and,  in  this  case,  we  might 
fairly  abolish  the  conscientious  objector.  Similarly, 
little  shop-girls  (maids  of  all  work,  with  ten  in 

374 


The  Yellow  Van 

family  preferred)  quite  the  hope  of  the  nation.  No 
damn  nonsense  in  them,  and  the  country  is  perishing 
of  that.  They  see  life  in  its  realities  of  labor,  tem- 
perance, simplicity,  low-pitched  claim.  Young  lady- 
hood is  killing  the  one  half  of  us,  and  young  spark- 
ishness  the  other.  Post-office  and  other  clerical  va- 
rieties of  our  modern  miss,  of  great  promise,  but 
should  be  warned  against  being  too  sweet  on  them- 
selves, and  prayed  with,  morning  and  evening, 
against  airs.  Compulsory  marriage  between  these 
and  young  navvies  of  good  conduct  worth  consider- 
ing as  an  extreme  measure.  Marriage  with  the 
merely  muscular  heathen  in  the  boating  and  football 
line  placed  in  the  table  of  prohibited  degrees. 

"The  absolute  necessity  of  reorganizing  our  duf- 
fers in  the  interest  of  the  social  order.  A  possible 
revolt  of  them  how  awful!  Think  of  their  finding 
a  second  Spartacus,  these  failures  in  all  departments, 
and  rising  on  their  lords  and  masters,  the  clever  fel- 
lows! The  feudal  system  no  other  than  the  clever 
fellows  in  their  setting  of  age  and  circumstance. 
Muttered  wrath  of  the  duffers  against  these  for  their 
usurpation  of  all  the  best  things  of  life  as  their  fee 
for  leadership.  'After  all,  we  have  our  stomachs  as 
well  as  you;  and  why  make  us  suffer  so  fearfully 
for  want  of  brains?'  If  they  found  no  Spartacus, 
the  defect  might  still  be  made  good  by  mere  weight 
of  numbers— as  though  the  sheep  turned  on  the  dog, 
on  a  deliberate  reckoning  of  the  cost  in  torn  fleeces. 
Defeat  in  the  end,  no  doubt,  but  what  havoc  in  the 
course  of  it !  Perhaps  more  economic  in  the  long  run, 

375 


The  Yellow  Van 

in  every  sense,  to  admit  them  to  a  larger  share  of  the 
pudding.  'Let  us  in,  or  we  will  spoil  your  universe' 
—what  a  rallying-cry !" 

Then  Augusta  struck  in  with  a  stray  thought: 
''Beautiful  on  the  mountains,  Scottish  or  American, 
the  feet  of  those  poor  students  working  as  plowmen, 
stokers,  packers,  and  cabmen  in  the  intervals  of  their 
college  terms.  Surely  Oxford  might  be  restored 
to  persons  of  this  stamp  without  troubling  Mr. 
Rhodes." 

And  thus  the  stranger  again,  still  harping  on 
England's  daughter  across  the  seas: 

"New  and  serious  attempt  on  the  part  of  our 
writing  clan  to  rediscover  America,  following  in  the 
wake  of  our  modern  Columbus  of  philosophical  liter- 
ature, E.  J.  Payne.  More  and  Montaigne  and  Shak- 
spere  saw  that  the  machinery  of  feudalism  was  out- 
worn, and  that  we  must  cross  the  Atlantic  for  a  new 
start  in  truth  and  nature,  if  not,  as  now,  to  re-teach 
its  second  crop  of  aborigines  the  lesson  they  are  them- 
selves making  haste  to  forget.  With  all  its  faults, 
America  still  looming  large  as  the  land  of  ideas. 
We  must  pass  through  and  beyond  it  to  get  to  higher 
things.  They  beat  us  by  their  impertinent  curiosity 
about  everything  under  the  sun,  including  their  own 
souls.  They  are  actually  trying  to  make  a  new  re- 
ligion, and,  though  the  attempt  may  not  succeed, 
it  must  have  precious  results  of  the  experimental 
order. 

"That  Easter-day  metaphysic  of  a  worthy  bishop 
— sin  and  death  abashed  before  a  miracle,  and  ut- 

376 


The  Yellow  Van 

terly  overthrown.  He  owns,  to  his  sorrow,  that  'the 
church  is  not  in  possession.'  How  can  it  be,  good 
man?  It  does  not  meet  the  facts  of  modern  suffer- 
ing, modern  discontent ;  and  we  want  a  new  adjust- 
ment. Be  not  alarmed;  there  have  been  hundreds 
before,  each  more  or  less  adequate,  and  therefore  true 
for  its  hour.  There  will  be  thousands  again. 

"Try  brotherhoods  of  social  justice,  but  brother- 
hoods of  the  world  instead  of  the  cloister;  sister- 
hoods—and more  especially— as  well.  Anchorites  of 
the  warehouse  and  of  the  drawing-room,  desperately 
concerned  in  finding  out  how  a  fine  life  should  be 
led,  and  in  bringing  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity 
into  every-day  concerns.  Being  pledged  one  to  an- 
other by  their  vows— cooperators  of  the  affections; 
trusts  of  the  heart;  contrivers  of  corners  in  mag- 
nanimity, self-sacrifice,  self-control,  leading  the 
world's  life,  but  even  that  to  finer  issues,  and  the 
soul's  life  in  the  temples  that  are  also  their  homes. 

"But  not  overmuch  organization.  The  'plan  of 
salvation'— ill-omened  phrase!  It  is  all  so  pigeon- 
holed and  docketed  nowadays  in  affairs  of  the  spirit 
—so  far  in  the  fetching,  so  remote.  Rome  and  Lam- 
beth these  bureaus  of  paradise !  Less  crimson  tape. 

"And  give  the  men  thus  bred  their  chance  of  the 
land,  and  of  every  other  good  thing  going.  The 
land  for  the  people,  without  a  revolution  of  blood 
—unless  you  insist  on  it.  Break  the  territorial  aris- 
tocracy, old  and  new,  and  buy  them  out.  Liddicot 
and  his  Grace  of  Allonby  quite  ready  for  heaven; 
Kisbye  also  ripe  for  a  bit  of  a  change  in  another 

377 


The  Yellow  Van 

sphere.  The  state  as  owner;  and,  as  holder  at  a 
fair  rent,  anybody  that  can  put  the  brown  earth 
to  good  use  in  any  quantity.  Other  ownership,  other 
rent  of  it,  a  crime,  as  between  man  and  man." 

Augusta  was  just  getting  ready  for  the  anti- 
strophe;  and  how  much  longer  the  silent  choral 
might  have  gone  on  between  them  no  man  can  say. 
But  at  this  moment  the  attendant  came  in,  and 
making  a  sign  to  her,  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
expected  shilling,  not  in  vain.  It  was  time  to  go, 
the  carriage  of  the  Duchess  of  Allonby  stopped  the 
way. 

The  duke  was  waiting  for  her. 

' '  I  am  in  luck, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  was  looking  for  you 
in  the  drive,  and  I  met  the  carriage."  He  seemed 
uneasy  for  all  that. 

"I  have  asked  him  for  to-day,  Augusta,  just  to 
get  it  over.  Would  you  mind  ?  There  '11  be  nobody 
else." 

''And  who  is  the  somebody?" 

"Well— Kisbye,  you  know!" 

It  was  the  sign  of  capitulation. 

"As  you  please,  Henry,  of  course,"  and  she  turned 
her  head  to  save  him  the  sight  of  a  wry  face. 

There  was  a  sense  of  something  impending  in  the 
banners,  the  roll  of  the  traffic,  the  hum  of  the  street. 
Was  it  the  end  of  an  epoch— the  old  order  that  had 
passed  away,  the  new  that  had  come  to  take  its  place  ? 
The  omens  were  not  all  favorable.  The  sky  became 
suddenly  overcast ;  there  was  a  threat  of  storm. 

Another  vehicle  was  at  the  gate,  rather  to  the 

378 


The  Yellow  Van 

ducal  coachman's  disgust.  It  was  a  curious  struc- 
ture, mounted  on  a  lorry,  as  though  for  repairs,  and 
evidently  much  the  worse  for  a  late  mishap. 

Augusta  at  once  recognized  the  yellow  van.  And, 
as  she  did  so,  the  stranger  stalking  forth  erect,  like 
a  soldier  taking  his  place  for  battle,  nodded  a  march- 
ing order  to  the  man  at  the  horse's  head. 

Old  Redmond  stood  confessed ;  and  the  van  served 
as  an  introduction. 

"You  have  met  with  an  accident?" 

"Hardly  that,  duchess."    And  he  touched  his  cap. 

She  started. 

"A  broken  head  and  what  not;  a  house  broken 
over  it  in  a  riot  raised  by  the  land-grabbers.  We 
shall  get  both  mended,  and  go  on  as  before.  Such 
things  are  among  our  rules  of  the  road." 

"Poor  man!" 

"I  need  no  pity:  we  '11  have  England  for  the  Eng- 
lish people  yet." 

All  moved  away— the  battered  veteran  to  his  line 
of  march,  the  Duchess  of  Allonby  only  to  dinner  with 
Mr.  Kisbye !  She  sighed :  it  was  impossible  not  to 
feel  the  difference  in  the  dignity  of  their  fates. 

When  last  seen,  the  van  was  in  a  ray  from  a  sun- 
burst that  parted  the  clouds. 


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